m 


GEORGE  -WELLS  *  ARMES 

MEMORIAL  LIBRARY   *  *  * 
STILE5  HALL.    .BERKELEY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


OK 


Y.  M.  O.  A.  OF  U.  C. 

101758         Class 


THE   NEAK 

4JT» 

HEAVENLY  HORIZONS 


FROM  THE    BRITISH   PRESS. 


"'TiiE  NEAR  AND  THE  HEAYENLY  HORIZONS'  is  a  charming 
book.  Madame  de  Gasparin  has  the  touch  of  genius  which  has 
the  strange  gift  of  speaking  to  every  one  'in  their  own  tongue.'" 
— Athenaum. 

"A  book  full  of  beauty  and  pathos."  —  British  Quarterly 
Atoicw. 

"  Be  persuaded,  reader,  to  get  this  beautiful  volume.  It  19 
just  the  book  for  Sabbath  afternoons  in  a  Christian  family." — 
Eclectic  Review. 

"The  pictures  of  nature  here  are  wondrous.  This  book? 
speaks  to  the  hearts  of  us  all." — Macmillan's  Magazine. 

"  Tlkese  pages  are  like  gossamer  threads  beaded  with  radiant 
dew-drops.  The  book  ought  to  become  extremely  popular." — 
The  Witness. 

"The  gifted  author  paints  the  ever-changing  scenes  of  nature 
with  marvellous  delicacy  and  force." — Leah  Mercury. 

"  We  have  scarcely  ever  read  a  book  with  more  enjoyment 
than  its  perusal  has  afforded  us." — Aberdeen  Free  Press. 

"  A  remarkable  book — displaying  marvellous  powers  of  de 
scriptive  writing." — The  Scotsman. 

"  This  is  a  book  to  be  enjoyed  and  revelled  in  rather  than 
criticised.  The  reader  who  sits  down  to  it  will  have  a  rare  lite 
rary  treat." — The  Scottish  Guardian, 


THE  NEAR 


THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 


y  4«Ve.v*  i^sw 
MADAME  DR  GASPARIN. 


"Earth  by  Heaven,  and  Heaven  by  changeful  Earth 
Illustrated,  and  mutually  endeared."— WOEDSWORTH. 


NEW    YORK: 

ROBERT  CARTER   &  BROTHERS, 
No.    630    BROADWAY. 

1867. 


r^ 

CONTENTS. 


THE  NEAR  HORIZON^ 

INTRODtrClTON, •          »  8 

LISETTE'S  DREAM,     .........  6 

THE  THREE  ROSES,     . 26 

THE  TILERY, «...  48 

THE  HEGELIAN, 67 

THE  SPRINGS, 83 

A  POOR  BOY,       .           .........  97 

THE  GALLEY-SLAVE, 120 

THE  DOVECOT, 128 

MARIETTA, 146 

THE  SCULPTOB, 154 

THE  ARBOUR,    .           .           ,                       ......  165 


THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS, .  177 

PART  I. 

TO  WHOM  I  SPEAK, ,          .          .  .  181 

OP  WHOM  I  SPEAK, .  •  .  196 

THE  AUTHORITY  ON  WHICH  I  REST,    ......  202 

THE  PARADISE  WE  FEAR,  , 221 


101758 


IT  CONTENTS. 

PART  II. 

THE  SUPREME  TYPE  :   A  RISEN  SAVIOUR, 231 

THE  SLEEPLESSNESS  OP  THE  SOUL, 242 

PERSONAL  IDENTITY. 253 

THE  ETERNITY  OP  LOVE,    .           .         4  '•*•  V'.U       ....  26f* 

THE  RESURRECTION  OF  THE  BODY,      ......  276 

PART  IIL 

THT  WHOLE  CREATION  SIQHETH,           ..,.,,  287 

THE  COMING  OF  CHRIST,      .....          t           j           .  296 

KBW  BSAVSKB  AW  SSW  &A&XH,                               .          .  t08 


THE    NEAf?    HORIZONS, 


THE  NEAR  EOKIZONS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

"  Una  donna  soletta,  che  si  gia 
Cantando,  ed  iscegliendo  fior  da  fiore, 
Ond'era  pinta  tutta  la  sua  via." 

—DANTE. 

[HE  niglit  is  far  spent;  many  of  tlie  stars  that 
shone  in  the  sky  have  disappeared  behind  the 
mountain,  the  dawn  pales  those  that  remain, 
thoughts  revert  to  the  early  hours  of  evening,  and  rest 
on  some  simple  figures  whose  path  my  steps  have  crossed. 
From  those  hours  rise  spring-tide  emanations,  rise  I  know 
not  what  scents,  what  dewy  freshness  that  revives  my 
heart.  The  figures  I  speak  of  are  not  all  young,  not  all 
beautiful ;  no ;  they  have  merely  the  charm  of  reality. 
Their  sober,  simple  outline  stands  out  after  the  manner  of 
the  old  masters  from  a  clear  and  transparent  ground. 

I  am  one  of  those  who  love  the  things  that  are  past ; 
things  that,  quitting  as  it  were  our  terrestrial  region,  rise 
to  mid-heaven  in  a  limpid  atmosphere  that  lends  them  an 
infinite  charm. 

About  to  emerge  into  the  brilliant  light  of  day,  I  lingei 
for  an  instant;  rny  gaze  follows  shadows  soon  to  be  effaced- 
profiles,  some  frank  and  f-  'r,  others  a  little  sail ;  taess 


4  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

singing  on  in  their  spring,  those  dreaming  on  in  their 
winter;  some  Ml  of  mystery,  others  very  simple,  and 
such  as  we  see  every  day.  And  there  are  landscapes  too  ; 
sometimes  two  trees  and  a  few  leaves,  vividly  green  against 
the  blue,  like  those  in  which  Po.rugino  framed  his  holy 
families;  sometimes  the  thick  forest,  the  vigorous  growth 
of  the  July  grass,  the  woodland  songs,  the  flowers  in  full 
blossom. 

It  is  all  this  that  I  would  contemplate,  muse  on  a  little 
during  that  short  uncertain  hour  which  folds  back  its  veil 

O 

before  the  splendours  of  the  morning. 

There  is  nothing  here  for  utilitarians,  nothing  for  so- 
called  realists,  for  lovers  of  the  dramatic,  for  acute  con 
noisseurs  ;  nothing,  indeed,  I  believe,  for  any  but  me  and 
those  like  me — dreamers,  satisfied  with  little,  whom  a 
great  poem  scares,  but  a  flower  half-opened,  a  holiday  bee, 
a  rustic  outline,  can  throw  into  infinite  reverie. 

If  this  once  begins,  there  is  hardly  any  end  to  it.  It  is 
not  a  series  of  pictures,  it  is  still  less  romance.  What, 
then  ?  Truly,  I  do  not  know.  It  is  that  unknown  some 
thing  which  sings  within,  the  wide  undulations  of  whose 
voice  expand  as  we  advance,  and  sometimes  blend  ideal 
melodies  with  the  most  common  details  of  the  most  prosaic 
life.  It  is  that  something  which  is  artist  too;  whose  pen 
cil  can,  while  our  bodily  eyes  turn  from  the  grocer's  shop 
to  the  tavern  at  the  corner,  flash  out  upon  us  the  green  of 
the  meadow,  the  darker  green  of  the  forest,  the  ruddy  gold 
of  the  sunset,  the  pale  gold  of  the  sunrise,  passing  over  the 
spirit  of  life  with  the  spirit  of  poetry.  And  it  is,  besides, 
that  hidden  poet  who,  as  we  are  moving  on  wearily  through 
life  as  it  has  been  made  to  us,  keeps  repeating  in  the 
depths  of  our  soul  strange  words,  words  replete  with  wild 
harmony,  words  that  the  gentleman  \\ilh  whom  you  me 


INTRODUCTION.  6 

chatting  would  hardly  understand,  nay,  that  j  ou  yourself, 
alas  !  in  your  common-sense  business  hours,  would  treat  as 
mere  fancies,  although  they  charm  you,  soothe  you,  trans 
port  you  into  serene  regions  where  you  would  live,  where 
you  would  gladly  die. 

It  is  just  this  that  I  have  to  impart  to  you.  The  hand 
\vill  be  inexpert,  the  voice  often  trembling ;  the  poor  poet, 
frightened  at  his  own  boldness,  will  perhaps  stop  short ; 
the  play -bill  is  promising,  the  piece  poor.  What  matters 
it !  The  reader  is  the  true  author.  I  may  stammer ;  your 
genius  will  sing  :  I  may  let  you  fall  on  the  way ;  your 
imagination,  light-winged  messenger,  will  bear  you  further 
than  my  steps  could  reach. 

Every  book  is,  in  fact,  a  journey  j  a  journey  in  which 
we  find  little  more  than  we  ourselves  bring;  the  richly 
provided,  richly  acquire.  I  do  not  possess  very  much ;  if 
you  have  kindliness,  some  love  for  God's  nature,  the  dower 
of  capacity  for  simple  pleasures,  come,  let  us  take  our  way 
through  this  meadow,  by  the  side  of  that  stream ;  we  two 
together,  our  fortune  is  mada 


LISETTE'S  DREAM. 

was  by  that  very  meadow,  and  by  that  stream, 
I  took  my  way,  one  fine  May  morning. 

The  grass  was  thick  and  tall,  the  starry  prim 
roses  were  over,  the  blue  clusters  of  the  squill  withered 
long  ago,  the  last  petals  of  the  fruit-trees  were  lost  in  the 
thicket  as  they  fell, — the  summer  gained  the  victory  over 
the  spring.  But  this  had  not  been  without  some  sharp 
encounters  ;  tussles,  as  our  peasants  say. 

The  blackthorn,  the  first,  had  had  many  a  tussle  then 
with  drifts  of  soon  melted  snow,  the  hawthorn  with  cool 
showers  that  soaked  the  red  twigs  of  the  hedges,  the  cuckoo 
and  the  blackbird  with  a  return  of  cold  winds  blowing  over 
the  scarcely  unfolded  leaves ;  but,  spite  of  storm  and  frost, 
the  April  days — beautiful  lengthening  days,  pressing  back 
with  both  hands  the  shades  of  morning  and  evening — had 
marched  on  young,  triumphant,  crowned  with  lilacs  ;  while, 
at  the  touch  of  their  fingers,  the  hedges,  the  apple-trees,  the 
e;round,  burst  into  blossom.  And  now  summer  was  at 
hand  ;  her  warm  breath  was  already  felt  on  the  buttercup- 
covered  meadows  ;  while,  from  the  neighbouring  mountains, 
frcm  the  snowy  summit  of  the  Jura,  came  still  a  keen,  re 
viving  breeze,  the  virgin  kiss  of  the  departing  spring. 

In  our  country  each  flower  in  succession  has  its  own 
absolute  reign.  The  sun,  looking  through  the  windows  of 
the  fantastical  dwellings  assigned  to  him  in  almanacs — the 
sun,  according  as  he  inhabits  the  sign  of  the  Ram,  ';he  Bull, 


LISETTE'S  DREAM.  7 

tlie  Twins,  or  the  Scorpion,  covers  our  valleys,  far  as  eye 
can  reach,  with  white  crocuses,  then  yellow  primroses,  then 
hyacinths,  then  lilac-tinted  cardamines,  then  golden  ran 
unculuses.'  There  is  almost  always  one  sheet  of  colour, 
splendid  in  its  uniformity.  It  is  true  that  in  March,  by 
the  hedge  side,  balmy  violets  and  fumitories;  along  the 
brooks,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  oak-trees,  rosy  white  anem 
ones  ;  do  what  they  can  to  blossom  in  tufts.  The  observant 
eye  may,  indeed,  detect  them  in  their  nests,  but  they  do 
not  affect  the  general  aspect  of  the  valley,  which  always 
presents  a  dazzling  carpet  of  one  single  shade,  till  towards 
the  end  of  June  it  is  enamelled  with  every  hue,  radiant 
with  every  kind  of  brightness,  each  flower  opening,  display 
ing  itself,  scattering  fragrance  on  its  own  account. 

There  is,  indeed,  in  May — at  the  very  time  I  was  taking 
this  particular  walk — a  short  season  when  green  is  the 
dominant  tone ;  a  harsh,  crude,  uncompromising  green, 
without  any  softening  touch  of  red  or  yellow,  or  any  deli 
cate  silvery  light.  This  green  :s  somewhat  oppressive,  I 
might  almost  say  sad. 

It  was  so  that  morning.  The  grass  I  walked  on  had 
such  a  glaring  brightness  ;  the  leaves  of  the  hedge,  whether 
hawthorn  leaves,  sweetbrier,  willow,  or  alder,  were  all  so 
varnished  and  brilliant,  you  could  hardly  look  at  them. 
On  the  mountain  side,  the  bright  verdure  of  the  beech  so 
prevailed  over  the  sombre  foliage  of  the  pines,  spread  so 
lustrously  and  positively  on  every  side,  rose  so  boldly  up 
to  the  pasture-land,  itself  so  decidedly  verdant  too,  that, 
apart  from  the  cupola  of  snow  upon  the  very  summit,  one 
could  see  nothing  but  this  intense  green,  which  seemed  to 
repress  thought. 

And  yet  there  were  the  walnut-trees,  the  great  wain  at- 
trees,  wliich  were  not  green.  They,  at  least,  protested; 


8  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

opening  out,  at  the  extremity  of  their  smooth,  whitish 
branches,  bunches  of  purple  and  aromatic  leaves. 

Then  there  was  the  brook,  whose  perfectly  pure  waters 
ran  over  a  now  smooth,  now  stony  bed,  sometimes  en 
countering  a  little  moss-covered  block,  round  which  they 
broke,  singing  thoi  3  eternal  songs  that  ears  like  mine  could 
listen  to  by  night  and  day. 

Then,  again,  there  were  the  bees ;  young  bees,  of  a 
lighter  brown,  a  more  delicate  velvet ;  inexperienced,  lost 
in  some  flower-chalice,  intoxicated  and  overtaken,  far  from 
the  hive,  by  the  dew  and  the  evening  chill 

Ah  !  how  many  of  those  thoughtless  ones  did  I  save, 
fishing  them  out  from  the  eddies  of  the  brook,  in  a  large 
leaf  or  the  hollow  of  my  hand  !  How  many  I  collected  at 
sunset,  wings  wet,  benumbed,  half  dead,  placing  them  in 
some  warm  shelter,  safe  from  the  lizard,  or  else  on  some 
dry  bough  looking  to  the  east,  that  the  early  rays  might 
restore  them  to  life  !  How  many  I  took  back  to  the  hives, 
and  tried  to  get  them  admittance  there  !  Alas  !  it  is  the 
game  with  bees  as  with  us ;  the  ladies  of  the  hive  came 
out,  felt  the  intruder  all  over,  turned  her  round  and  round, 
and  pushed  her  out  of  their  community.  The  more  suffer 
ing  the  creature,  the  more  severe  the  reception  ;  while  the 
latest  comers,  those  belonging  to  the  last  swarm  of  the 
last  hive,  boldly  thrust  the  victim  through  with  their 
stings ;  then,  dragging  her  by  her  legs  to  the  edge  of  the 
platform,  let  her  fall  into  the  field  of  death  below,  amidst 
the  drones,  their  defunct  husbands. 

Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  green  or  the  drones,  I  know 
not ;  but  that  morning  I  went  on  my  way  sadly.  The 
glory  of  the  spring  did  nothing  for  me. 

Do  you  know  "lours  when  the  demon  of  analysis,  the 
Uul  an^ol  of  our  age,  brushes  against  you  with  his  cold 


LISETTE'S  DREAM.  9 

\\  ings  I  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  explore  your  affec 
tions,  your  thoughts,  and  to  say  of  them  all,  What  do  they 
profit  ? 

The  young  are  more  subject  to  this  complaint  than  the 
old.  Which  of  us  has  not  descended  those  desolate  slopes, 
has  not  seated  himself  weeping  in  that  sterile  valley,  which 
the  sun  has  forsaken,  has  not  remained  there,  counting  hi^ 
wounds,  finding  a  fatal  pleasure  in  saying  to  himself  that 
all  is  over,  that  happiness  is  wrecked,  faith  extinguished, 
faculties  weakened,  tenderness  dead  ;  that  life,  like  a  faded 
flower,  has  let  fall  petal  after  petal,  and  that  there  is  nothing 
more  to  be  done  but  to  let  old  age  come,  and  then  death. 

At  such  times  it  seems  as  though  we  were  wander 
ing  in  one  of  those  ruined  planets,  those  extinct  worlds 
whose  lurid  light  still  traverses  the  sky.  Then  we  see 
things  as  they  are,  or  rather  as  they  would  be,  if  the  won 
drous  brightness  of  day,  if  perfume,  harmony,  blue  atmo 
spheric  depths  were  all  taken  away  from  us.  and  our  earth 
left  bare.  Everything  becomes  dry,  hard,  resolvable  into 
problems,  the  positive  solution  of  which  destroys  our  last 
illusions.  The  task  which  charmed  me  with  its  timc- 
speeding  magic,  it  has  no  use,  teaches  nothing,  is  worth 
nothing !  Those  melodies  which  wafted  me  into  realms  of 
serenity,  they  are  fiat,  monotonous,  wearisome  !  My  pencil, 
nothing  either  !  My  friends,  my  beloved,  that  image  closest 
to  the  heart ;  oh,  it  is  here  that  the  abyss  yawns ;  here 
there  is  dead  silence,  and  the  demon  speaks  in  his  doubt 
ing  voice  : — Your  father,  your  child,  your  wife  !  you  are 
their  treasure,  you  are  the  breath  of  their  soul,  the  days 
they  live  away  from  you  are  days  of  heaviness  :  if  you  are 
late,  they  are  anxious  ;  if  you  suffer,  they  are  sad ;  if  you 
died,  they  would  die  too  1  No  !  they  would  not  die  ;  they 
conld  do  without  you  !  You  believe  yourself  essential,  you 


10  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

are  not ;  you  believe  that  you  give  happiness,  others  would 
give  more;  you  think  that  were  jou  taken  out  of  their  life, 
that  life  would  be  shattered.  Not  so.  It  would  resume  its 
course,  would  pass  through  other  regions,  other  flov/ers,  to 
blossom  under  other  skies.  The  thought  of  you,  passion 
ately  cherished  at  first,  would  recede  towards  the  distant 
horizon,  would  remain  suspended  there,  and  only  rare  inter  • 
vals  and  hours  of  sadness  would  lead  them  back  to  you. 

No  one  is  indispensable  to  any  other ;  there  is  but  one 
thing  imperishable,  and  that  is  the  need  we  have  of  being 
happy  at  any  cost. 

We  have  more  vitality  than  the  hydra.  Cut,  cut  away, 
lop  off  here  and  there,  strew  the  ground  with  our  limbs, 
leave  only  a  bleeding  trunk ;  it  will  writhe,  then  it  will 
stanch  its  wounds,  then  it  will  glide  into  some  new  path, 
under  the  leaves,  amidst  the  grass,  it  will  find  some  shady 
retreat,  and  it  will  live. 

This  is  worst  of  all,  to  own  to  ourselves  that  we  can  be 
mutilated  and  yet  survive ;  that  after  such  severance  the 
wound  can  close;  after  the  thunderbolt  the  sky  grow  clear  ; 
that  with  the  heart  torn  out  wre  may  walk  on  without  any 
unbearable  pain;  that  failing  a  life  interpenetrated  with 
love,  we  can  create  for  ourselves  a  narrow  quiet  existence, 
where  mere  mind  or  matter  prevails  according  to  individual 
temperament,  that  the  day  inny  come  when  we  honestly 
confess  to  be  better  off  after  than  before  the  storm,  and  to 
journey  on  more  comfortably  alone ;  a  day  when  a  horrible 
egotism  may  sit  a  victor  on  the  ruins  of  all  our  past.  This 
is  the  supreme  misfortune ;  to  find  ourselves  at  last  alone, 
self-contemplating,  self-satisfied,  self-conscious  that  self  is 
our  all  in  all.  This  is  the  source  of  mortal  disgust  and 
sovereign  disdain . 

I  was  going  along,  a  bitter  smile  upon  my  lips,  a  bitter 


LISETTE'S  DREAM.  11 

indifference  at  my  heart,  reduced  to  despair,  as  negation 
after  negatkci  fell  on  me  like  blows  from  an  axe;  when  I 
chanced  to  raise  my  eyes  and  saw  the  country,  saw  it 
magnificent,  exuberantly  fresh ;  saw  the  barley  fields  that 
promised  harvest,  the  young  bunches  of  grapes  that  pro 
mised  the  vintage ;  saw  the  tufted  fields,  the  orchards, 
laden  with  fruit,  the  bees  and  the  butterflies  flying  off  in 
quest  of  pillage,  the  peasant  going  to  his  work.  The  earth 
is  beautiful,  I  said  to  myself,  the  earth  is  good  !  Then  I 
raised  my  glance  up  the  mountain  side,  higher  than  the 
beeches,  higher  than  the  pines,  higher  than  the  chalets, 
than  the  pastures,  up,  up  to  the  snow,  up  to  that  sparkling 
cupola  whose  white  outline  sharply  cuts  the  deep  blue  sky, 
up  to  that  region  of  Paradise !  O  ye  heavens,  ye  are 
great  and  glorious !  My  God,  thou  art  the  mighty  One, 
the  Eternal ! — Love  !  It  is  only  that  which  I  have  been 
ignoring  all  this  while  !  The  love  of  God,  the  love  which 
came  down  to  us,  the  love  which  defies  time  and  space,  the 
immortal,  imperishable  love  Thou  hast  put  into  the  heart  of 
man ! 

Our  years  will  pass,  our  faculties  fade,  our  loved  ones 
depart ;  nothing  of  us  will  remain  save  poor  old  withered 
bodies  that  drag  themselves  into  the  sunshine  ;  all  will 
die.  No,  all  lives,  love  though  buried  beneath  the  snows 
of  age,  love  glows  unextinguished.  It  breathes  in  wordless 
prayers,  it  looks  back  to  cherished  memories,  forward  to 
the  land  of  promise.  The  cheeks  are  wrinkled,  the  lips 
wear  a  smile  the  vigorous  call  childish,  the  eye  is  dull ;  we 
seem  to  have  merely  a  pale  eftigy,  aimlessly  wandering 
amidst  a  new  generation.  Do  not  think  so ;  below  the 
surface  there  are  tears,  strong  hopes,  there  is  a  whole  vast 
world,  there  is  a  human  heart,  there  ;s  the  Infinite. 

Nothing  that  has  ever  truly  lived  is  lost,  nothing  use- 


12  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

less ;  not  a  sigh,  a  joy,  or  a  sorrow  which  has  not  served 
its  purpose.  Our  tears  are  numbered,  the  fragrance  of  our 
innocent  pleasures  mounts  heavenward  as  a  sweet-smelling 
savour.  Let  us  take  courage ;  honest  labour,  upright 
thoughts,  healthy  emotions  endure.  Let  us  give,  love, 
become  as  little  children,  so  shall  we  reach  self-forgetful- 
ness,  that  supreme  possession,  that  dominion  over  the  uni 
verse. 

Yes,  so  it  is ;  in  our  day  there  are  young  people  who 
are  old,  having  exhausted  everything ;  who  are  indifferent, 
sceptical,  weary  as  a  traveller  at  nightfall.  And  there  arc 
old  people  who  are  young,  ready-witted,  with  sparkling  eyes 
and  energetic  hearts,  easily  pleased,  open  to  innocent  enjoy 
ments.  And  such  as  these, — this  spring  blossoming  so 
near  death,  this  union  of  simplicity  and  native  dignity,  this 
green  intellect,  this  indulgent  benevolence,  this  ready  cheer 
fulness,  have  a  charm  for  my  nature  which  almost  excites 
emotion. 

It  was  just  such  an  old  woman  as  this  that  I  was  going 
to  see. 

Before  entering  the  village,  I  stopped  a  little  on  the  hill. 
On  one  side,  the  valley  stretched  out  in  its  green  attire 
very  far  below  to  the  blue  lake;  further  still,  full  of 
vapour,  to  the  white  Alps.  On  the  other  side,  behind  the 
village,  the  mountain  sloped  down  to  the  highest  houses, 
all  dotted  with  beech  and  fir,  with  orchards  intermixed  ; 
and  as  I  had  climbed  to  some  height,  I  found  those  tree* 
still  blossoming  which  had  done  flowering  below. 

There  was  no  longer  that  glaring  green  which  had  thrown 
me  into  such  a  strange  train  of  thought.  The  dome  of  the 
apple-trees  rounded  itself  rosy-white,  relieved  here  and  there 
with  crimson  buds;  the  pear-trees  rose  in  silver  pyiamids, 
immaculate,  almost  hard  in  their  brilliancy.  There  was  an 


LISETTE'S  DREAM.  13 

infinite  variety  of  hues.  The  branches,  laden  with  gar 
lands,  surrounded  with  humming  bees,  stooped  down  into 
the  grass;  the  topmost  flowers  kissed  the  lowest;  not  a 
leaf  dared  to  shew.  The  hawthorn  displayed  aU  around 
its  small  stars  spotted  with  purple  stamens ;  through  its 
gaps  you  saw  roofs ;  bright  panes  of  glass ;  and  on  the  hill, 
near  those  lazy  rocks  sunning  themselves  up  there,  blackened 
spaces  shewed  where  the  woman  had  been  beating  out  the 
hemp  last  autumn. 

The  goats  were  just  setting  out  for  the  mountains;  little 
boys  driving  them  along  the  wood-paths ;  you  could  hear 
their  bells ;  a  kid,  perched  in  the  middle  of  a  bush,  gave 
a  startled  glance  at  the  grand  procession,  then  returned 
eagerly  to  nibble  the  young  shoots  about  him.  The  pea 
sants  were  all  at  work  in  the  country ;  the  village  was 
deserted. 

How  charming  a  village  is !  how  charming  those  foun 
tains,  with  wooden  basins  !  if  the  village  be  rich,  with  stone 
ones,  with  the  water  trickling  down  and  running  over. 

In  the  evening,  the  cows  come  heavily  by,  drink  slowly, 
and  return  to  their  stalls,  scattering  sparkling  drops  from 
their  cool,  wet  muzzles.  The  pleasant  smell  of  hay  is 
wafted  from  the  open  barns.  Women  come  and  go,  and 
wash  vegetables  at  the  fountain ;  men,  seated  before  their 
houses,  sharpen  their  scythes,  and  fill  the  air  with  metallic 
notes ;  children  sing  and  dabble,  and  heap  up  handfuls  of 
fine  sand ;  hens  seek  their  food  with  that  little,  anxious, 
monotonous  cluck,  that  protest  of  a  good  housewife,  who 
sighs  each  time  she  puts  by  a  millet  seed ;  cocks,  proudly 
thrown  back  on  their  tails,  send  forth  a  warlike  cry,  which 
gets  repeated  by  all  the  sultans  near. 

But  on  the  day  I  speak  of,  it  was  morning ;  the  village 
was  silent ;  you  only  heard  beneath  a  heap  of  fagots,  in 


14  TUE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

some  mysterious  corner,  the  self-complacent  cackling  of  the 
laying  hen. 

To  reach  Lisette's  house,  (it  was  to  her  I  was  going,)  I 
had  to  pass  through  a  barn.  Now,  barns  give  me  untold 
satisfaction ;  I  feel  at  home  in  them ;  my  heart  expands. 
My  hand  is  scarcely  on  the  latch  of  the  little  door,  with  its 
two  separate  halves  ;  my  foot  has  hardly  touched  the  floor, 
covered  with  newly-mown  grass ;  I  have  hardly  inhaled 
the  perfume  of  last  year's  hay,  heaped  up  on  both  sides  of 
me,  when  I  feel  a  perfect  flood  of  happiness.  Am  I  re 
lated  to  the  cattle?  Perhaps  so;  to  those  oxen,  for  in 
stance,  whose  noses  are  pushed  right  and  left  through  the 
open  rack,  into  the  hay-loft,  enjoying  as  well  as  I  the  sweet 
smell  of  the  new  grass.  I  have  not  the  least  objection  to 
claim  kinship  ;  but  so  it  is,  that  my  heart  leaps  again,  and 
I  thank  God,  who  has  made  meadow,  skies,  oxen,  barns, 
and  me.  Everything  is  beautiful,  everything  is  wondrous ! 
Life  is  an  ineffable  gift :  death,  a  triumph.  Men  arc 
brothers :  the  poor,  precious  friends.  To  give  pleasure, 
to  dry  tears, — it  is  heaven  on  earth  !  Ah  !  for  once  good 
bye  to  analysis ;  this  is  not  to  be  defined,  scarcely  to  be 
understood ;  it  is  a  sudden  radiance,  the  illumination  of 
the  soul ;  it  is  a  hymn  that  bursts  out  at  once  in  all  direc 
tions.  I  have  often  thought  that  woods,  fields,  nests, 
moss-covered  hollows,  sent  up  just  such  an  anthem  to  the 
Lord. 

I  laving  passed  through  the  barn,  here  we  are  at  Lisette's, 
in  her  dark,  flagged  kitchen,  with  a  large  chimney,  into 
which  the  fowls  sometimes  adventure  themselves ;  then  we 
pass  in  her  bright,  cheerful  room,  with  a  window  looking 
on  the  street.  It  is  here  Lisctte  is  to  be  found. 

Close  to  the  lighted  stove,  (for  it  is  still  cold,  and  one  is 
glad  of  fires  in  the  morning,  before  the  sunbeams  shim1 


LISETTE'S  DREAM.  15 

through  the  cloudy  panes  of  glass,) — close  to  the  stove,  sits 
Lisette's  old  husband,  half  sleeping,  half  musing,  Ms  hands 
resting  on  the  iron  pot  about  to  boil,  his  head  on  his  hands, 
Ids  white  knitted  cap  drawn  over  his  eyes. 

Generally,  when  he  sees  me,  Lisette's  husband  rises, 
stretches  himself,  scratches  his  forehead,  says — "  One  must 
be  looking  after  the  cows,"  and  goes  away. 

I  think  that  his  wife  and  I — taken  in  combination,  that 
is  to  say — weary  him.  His  wife  is  a  thinker  :  he  can 
excuse  this,  as  long  as  she  is  silent;  when  I  arrive,  we 
talk.  This  worthy  man,  who,  during  the  whole  of  his 
fourscore  years,  has  discerned  little  more  than  the  four 
seasons  succeeding  each  other ;  hay-time,  harvest,  vintage, 
then  ploughing  and  sowing,  then  finally  death,  repose,  not 
to  say  annihilation, — this  good  man  of  ours  mistrusts  us. 
He  perceives  vaguely  that  we  speak  a  strange  language ; 
thoughts  stir  there  which  disquiet  him,  questions  that 
embarrass ;  a  certain  consciousness  of  inferiority  comes 
over  him, — he  never  has  it  at  other  times.  The  humble 
old  woman  has  never  been  aware  of  the  keen  intelligence, 
the  depths  of  thought  within  her.  "  Stuff  and  nonsense  !" 
mutters  the  good  man  to  himself;  opens  the  door,  and 
disappears. 

Lisette,  as  well  as  her  husband,  has  run  her  fourscore 
years  or  thereabouts.  Lame  of  one  leg,  but  erect  and  well 
made,  there  she  is  on  her  old,  straight-backed  arm-chair. 
Pretty  children — her  grandchildren — surround  her,  formid 
able  hunches  of  cake  in  hand.  "Just  go  and  play  out 
there  in  front,"  says  she ;  and  they  disappear,  like  a  flight 
of  starlings. 

There  is  nothing  now  in  the  room  but  the  bed  with 
chintz  curtains,  with  great  blue  branches,  on  a  red  ground ; 
B«jinc  walnut  chairs,  well  polished ;  the  stove,  the  tablo 


16  TEE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

with  turned  legs,  the  great  press,  carved  in  a  former  age, 
and  the  old  wonvm  seated  near  the  window,  clorfe  to  her 
pot  of  green  marjoram,  close  to  her  rose  geranium  which 
bushes  out  in  a  cracked  earthen  pan. 

Poor  as  are  the  adjuncts,  the  figure  is  charming.  Slender, 
as  I  said,  rather  thin,  with  noble  features,  a  pale  com 
plexion,  colourless  without  being  withered ;  gray  hair 
almost  hid  under  a  cap  of  the  thick  lace  our  great-grand 
mothers  used  to  wear ;  black  eyes,  as  young  as  they  were 
at  twenty,  soft,  limpid  eyes,  which  look  into,  and  allow 
you  to  look  into  the  soul.  A  smile  completes  the  face. 
It  is  not  an  inadvertant,  it  is  not  a  triumphant  smile ;  it  is 
a  smile  in  which  blend  such  freshness,  such  exquisite  deli 
cacy,  such  sweet  graciousness,  that,  once  seen,  it  floats 
eternally  in  the  memory.  I  shall  be  laughed  at,  but  I  have 
never  seen  more  than  one  mouth  that  reminded  me  of 
Lisette,  and  that  was  the  mouth  of  the  Joconda.  Lisette's 
had  the  same  sudden  brightness,  and  ineffable  fascination, 
minus  the  wild  flash,  plus  the  angelic  goodness. 

Lisette  was  a  spiritualist ;  there  are  such  in  villages. 
She  had  been  an  excellent  manager  in  her  day ;  had  baked, 
fed  her  cattle,  worked  hard  in  hay-time.  She  had  taken 
her  part  in  the  vintage,  wielded  the  rake,  dug  the  garden, 
spun  enough  to  fill  all  the  presses  in  her  cottage  from  top 
to  bottom.  On  washing-days,  the  hedges  round  were  rich 
with  her  treasures ;  no  one  more  apt  to  labour,  more  pru 
dent  as  to  expense,  but  while  her  arms  were  employed  her 
brain  was  active.  And  now  that  all  she  could  do  to  amuse 
herself  was  to  mend  clothes,  or  wind  thread,  thought  had 
got  the  upper  hand. 

Lisette  had  a  soul ;  she  was  conscious  of  it,  nay,  she 
was  anxious  about  it.  Tliis  is  not  common  in  our  days,  in 
the  country  any  more  than  in  towns.  Lisette  belonged 


LISETTE'S  DREAM.  17 

to  that  austerely  brought-up  generation,  kept  under  by  their 
fathers — grand,  grave  men,  who  governed  by  a  look,  with 
out  waste  of  words.  They  had  strong  natures,  and  lived 
soberly  in  their  sheltered  nooks.  No  network  of  good 
roads  joined,  as  now,  hamlets  to  villages,  villages  to  cities. 
Local  papers  had  scarcely  an  existence.  Ten  years  might 
pass  without  a  new  book  drifting  into  their  dwellings. 
Nevertheless,  the  peasant  read  on  Sunday  winter  nights  , 
read  the  Bible,  that  history  of  nations,  that  philosophy  of 
the  heart,  that  divine  poetry,  that  speech  of  God  to  man ; 
and  he  made  his  children  read  it,  their  little  fingers  follow 
ing  each  word,  and  that  generation,  growing  up  thus  be 
neath  the  shadow  of  Judea's  palm-trees,  in  direct  relation 
to  the  God  of  heaven,  fed  on  faith,  early  subject  to  duty , 
that  generation  had  a  character  at  once  gentle  and  coura 
geous,  calm  and  reflective,  poetical  and  ideal,  such  as  our 
age  most  certainly  will  not  transmit  to  its  children. 

Lisette  had  grown  up  under  that  system,  had  breathed 
the  very  air  of  the  East.  For  her,  Euth  and  Naomi, 
Sarah,  Moses,  and  Rachel  who  would  not  be  comforted, 
were  personages  more  living,  more  real  than  the  great 
Napoleon  and  his  twelve  marshals. 

She  had  no  very  distinct  recollection  of  the  Revolution 
of  '89  ;  its  terrible  echoes  had  but  faintly  shaken  the 
mighty  wall  of  the  Jura.  All  the  noise  made  in  France, 
the  days  of  July;  many  other  glorious  days;  insurrec 
tionary  cannonades ;  popular  cry  of  a  Republic ;  acclama 
tions  of  the  Empire, — all  these  died  away  on  the  moss  of 
the  forests,  in  the  thick  tangle  of  the  beech-trees.  The 
winter  blasts  through  the  pines  had  a  louder  voice,  an 
eternal  wail  that  prevailed  over  them  all. 

Above  the  beautiful  region  she  inhabited,  and  beyond 
the  limits  of  her  actual  life,  a  world  L;ul  openo;!  out  to 


18  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

Lisette,  even  from  her  earliest  days.  It  was  the  Hebrew 
world.  There  the  camels  and  caravans  of  the  Ishmaelitish 
merchantmen  passed  through  the  desert;  there  Hagar 
wept  under  the  palm-tree  ;  there  the  transparent  waters  of 
the  Eed  Sea  stood  on  a  heap ;  there  more  golden  sheaves 
and  richer  ears  of  corn  waved  on  the  fields  of  Bethlehem 
beneath  a  softer  breeze  which  had  kissed  the  pomegranates 
in  blossom.  There,  too,  smoked  Mount  Sinai ;  there  stood 
Moses,  his  face  bright  with  mysterious  radiance,  breaking 
the  tables  of  the  law  before  the  dancing  and  delirious 
people. 

Even  as  a  child,  when  she  used  to  take  the  cows  to  feed 
in  the  forest  glades,  the  wild  strawberries  having  been 
once  gathered,  and  small  gardens  planted  here  and  there, 
Lisette  would  sit  down  beneath  some  spreading  pine,  on 
the  smooth  surface  made  by  its  falling  spikes,  her  eyes 
wandering  from  the  black  to  the  brindled  cow,  and  in  that 
wood-enclosed  pasture  she  would  begin  to  dream.  She 
dreamed  of  Jacob's  flocks,  of  Leah,  of  the  wondrous 
ladder;  with  the  intense  gaze  of  her  soul  fixed  on  the 
depths  of  past  ages,  deriving  thence  the  simple  faith,  the 
fresh  purity  of  the  time  when  man  was  young  upon  the 
earth.  She  spoke  to  God  ;  God  spoke  to  her. 

Had  an  angel,  palm  in  hand,  appeared  before  her  there 
under  the  great  pine,  it  would  not  have  surprised  her ;  she 
would  have  prostrated  herself;  would  humbly  have  laid 
her  basket  of  strawberries  at  his  feet.  Oh,  if  it  might  but 
have  been ! 

How  often  Lisette  had  steadily  contemplated  the  in 
finite  sky,  to  catch  some  golden  beam  descending  on  her 
straight  from  Paradise !  If  the  juniper  bush  th.it  shadowed 
her  strawberry  plants  had  suddenly  kindled  with  super 
natural  flame,  Lisette  would  have  approached  as  did  Moses ; 


LISETTE'S  DREAM.  19 

putting  her  slices  from  off  her  feet,  she  would  have  received 
the  divine  command  with  a  simple  heart. 

Was  Lisette  then  a  visionary?  By  no  means:  she  had 
too  much  common  sense  for  that.  With  her  bodily  eyes  she 
never  saw  anything  but  the  fields,  the  cows,  and  the  blue 
sky  overhead  ;  but  she  believed,  moved,  and  lived  calm  and 
thoughtful  in  the  realm  of  faith. 

Her  piety  had  a  touch  of  austerity  and  timidity ;  there 
was  a  reserve  about  her  which  rather  reminded  you  of  the 
women  of  the  Old  Testament  than  of  the"  New.  She  had 
a  great  fear  of  offending  God ;  she  loved  from  afar,  very 
humbly,  reverence  almost  veiling  love.  Brought  up  rather 
on  the  precepts  of  Moses  than  the  revelation  of  Christ,  you 
would  have  taken  her  for  one  of  the  Israelitish  women  who 
followed  Miriam  when,  sounding  the  cymbal  with  a  tri 
umphant  hand,  she  celebrated  Pharaoh's  defeat.  Or  again, 
she  resembled  that  Shunammite  intent  on  hospitably  receiv 
ing  the  servant  of  the  Lord :  modest,  with  burning  heart  be 
neath  all  her  reserve,  who,  when  her  son  died,  laid  him  on 
the  prophet's  bed,  then  boldly  went  to  seek  the  man  of 
God,  and  say,  "  Did  I  desire  a  son  of  my  lord "?" 

Lisette's  serious  aspect,  serious  and  serene,  recalled  those 
times.  She  possessed  fervour,  judgment,  veneration ;  be 
neath  her  gray  hairs  the  ingenuity  of  her  girlhood ;  a  clear 
mind  that  saw  death  coming,  a  delicate  conscience,  that 
mere  honesty  did  not  satisfy ;  a  native  intelligence  always 
turning  over  grave  problematical  questions.  She  teased  no 
one,  nor  agitated  herself ;  everything  in  her  was  sober  and 
sagacious ;  only  when  she  spoke  of  her  end,  her  smile  was 
rather  sad,  and  with  a  most  loveable  shake  of  her  head,  she 
would  say — "  Well,  I  hope  indeed — but  can  God  really  for 
give  me  ?" 

Now,  Lisette's  sin,  you  may  well  believe,  was  no  crime 


20  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

it  was  the  sin  of  us  all — your  sin,  alas  !  and  mine ;  peta* 
lance,  a  warm  temper,  a  few  hasty  words,  many  years  spent 
without  much"  thought  of  God  ;  a  heart  unapt  to  lay  hold 
1  on  Him  ;  easily  turned  away. 

The  majority  call  this  virtue.  Not  so  Lisette  ',  she  saw 
things  too  clearly.  Her  searching,  logical  mind  was  not 
dhc  to  be  lured  by  a  toy,  or  satisfied  with  a  show.  If 
diverted  a  moment,  it  was  sure  to  return. 

Lisette  had  never  trifled  with  that  deep  need  of  holines-s, 
that  thirst  after  truth  which  kindles  sooner  or  later  in  all 
elect  souls.  She  was  incessantly  occupied  in  contemplating 
the  mystery  of  death,  and  of  what  comes  after  it. 

"  Do  this  and  live,"  cried  to  her,  from  the  summit  of  Sinai, 
the  voice  that  thundered  amidst  the  lightnings.  "  Only  be- 
Keve !"  said  the  voice  which  speaks  from  the  bleeding  cross. 

Lisette  believed,  hoped,  loved ;  but  her  pale  face,  turned 
towards  the  desert,  bore  the  impress  of  a  holy  terror ;  her 
heart  dared  not  expand  ;  she  sat  trembling  on  the  threshold 
of  Eden,  and  sometimes  saw  the  flaming  sword  of  the 
cherubim  turned  against  her. 

It  was  of  this  we  were  conversing. 

She  shewed  me  the  awful  Jehovah ;  I  pointed  her  to 
the  God  of  Abraham  :  she  spoke  to  me  of  sin  ;  I  spoke  to 
her  of  pardon  :  she  said  to  me,  I  have  erred  too  much ;  I 
said  to  her,  He  has  suffered  more. 

Do  not  be  alanned,  I  am  not  going  to  treat  you  to 
theology;  not  that  I  despise  it,  but  I  should  be  awkward 
at  it, — Lisette,  too.  For  my  part  I  hold  in  reverence  all 
who  lead  a  life  of  thought,  theologians  as  well  as  others. 
To  eat,  drink,  sleep,  dress  well,  and  to-morrow  die,  has 
never  prepossessed  my  fancy  much, — nor  Lisette's  either. 
To  go  through  life  like  a  great  burly  drone,  knocking  up 
against  flowers,  burying  his  proboscis  in  their  cups,  with- 


LISE1:TE'S  DREAM.  21 

out  looking  or  wondering  at  anything,  without  even  in 
haling  the  perfume  of  the  blossoms  he  pierces,  then,  when 
evening  comes,  to  die  congealed  beneath  the  leaves,  or  to 
be  killed  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  by  a  bee  who  has  done 
with  him, — whatever  may  be  said  for  it,  neither  Lisetto 
nor  I  find  any  sense  or  any  poetry  in  a  course  like  this. 
But  dreamers — I  do  not  mean  by  this  empty  dreamers  ;  I 
mean  the  dealers  with  ideas,  those  who  go  digging  into 
some  rich  vein,  deep  down  in  the  mine,  or  soar  on  daring 
wing  beyond  the  skies, — these,  however  poor  their  condi 
tion  or  their  outward  man,  we — Lisette  who  knows  none 
of  them,  and  I  wrho  know  but  few — hold  these  to  be  true 
sages,  great  poets.  In  fact,  it  is  just  they  who  take  the 
world  in  tow.  Not  easy-going  people,  elastic,  satisfied  with 
themselves  and  with  all  else,  because  seeing  little  beyond 
their  particular  peck  of  oats;  but  souls  with  vigorous 
griefs  and  mighty  joys,  men  of  the  day-time,  who  want 
light  every  where,,  who  prefer  suffering  to  a  truth-haunted 
sleep,  who  feel  themselves  travellers,  pilgrims,  wrestlers, 
always  under  arms,  on  the  march,  in  the  battle ;  often 
bruised,  harassed,  losing  courage,  but  sometimes  visited 
by  such  fulness  of  joy,  believing  so  boldly  what  they  do 
believe,  reigning  so  absolutely  in  the  realm  of  soul,  sowing 
so  richly  the  soil  they  tread,  conquering  so  triumphantly 
the  adverse  circumstances  barking  at  their  heels,  that  as 
we  see  them  pass  we  feel  that  they  are  indeed  the  masters, 
the  living  men,  and  all  others  slaves,  dead  ! 

I  say  all  this  to  explain  Lisette  to  you.  She  was  a  do 
mestic  creature,  easy  to  live  with,  peaceful,  smiling,  espe 
cially  to  children ;  a  superficial  observer  would  have  taken 
her  for  the  type  of  serenity.  But  inwardly  in  a  very  fer 
ment  of  thought,  satisfied  with  difficulty,  never  satisfied 
with  false  reasoning.  And  as  she  knew  nothing  of  society, 


22  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

politics,  or  science,  the  great  problem  of  Eternity  hung 
ever  motionless  before  her,  one  side  lit  by  faith,  the  other 
shadowed  by  doubt. 

"I  am  sad,"  said  Lisette  t<)  me.  "Listen;  you  will 
laugh,  but  I  have  had  a  dream." 

"  Dreams  are  liars,"  answered  I,  foolishly  enough. 

"Oh,  dear  no!  Dreams  are  not  all  true,  I  know,  yet 
Joseph  dreamed ;  Pharaoh  saw  the  seven  fat,  then  the 
seven  lean  kine  come  out  of  the  rushes  of  the  river ;  it  was 
God  who  made  him  see  them." 

"Yes,  God  can  employ" 

"  The  Lord  has  many  messengers/'  she  broke  in ;  then 
she  shook  her  head.  "  It  has  left  a  gloom  upon  me." 

"  Come,  tell  it  me,  Lisette." 

"  You  will  laugh ;  but  it 's  no  matter,  I  am  going  to  tell  it. 

"  I  was  walking  in  a  meadow,  towards  evening ;  the  sun 
was  down,  the  plants  drooped,  clouds  of  dust  rose  from  the. 
road, — a  wide,  smooth  road ;  much  quality  went  along  it, 
coaches,  riders,  merchants,  gentlemen,  men  walking  behind 
their  cows,  poor  people,  too — a  crowd  like  a  fair.  They  all 
went  one  way  ;  I  did  not  trouble  myself  about  where  it  led, 
did  not  seem  much  to  care,  it  was  as  though  I  understood 
without  knowing — I  am  tiring  you." 

"Not  at  all." 

"  Old  people  are  slow." 

"  Take  your  time." 

"  I  had  not  chosen  that  road,  yet  I  went  with  the  rest, 
I  walked  on  the  grass  easily  enough,  though  I  was  in  a 
great  hurry. 

"On  one  side,  under  the  thorns,  I  saw  a  rough  path  ; 
one  of  those  mountain  tracks  full  of  brambles  and  stones, 
felled  trees  that  one  had  to  stride  over,  roots  on  a  level 
with  the  ground  in  which  the  foot  caught.  •  There  was  no 


LISBTTE'S  DREAM.  23 

crowd  there  ;  every  now  and  then  some  heavily-laden 
traveller,  some  woman,  looking  harassed  and  sad.  They 
sat  down,  or  rather  all  but  fell ;  then  they  looked  to  the 
top  of  the  lull,  took  courage,  rose,  settled  their  baggage? 
better  on  their  shoulders,  and  bending  under  it,  dragged 
on  amongst  the  stones. 

"  The  others,  those  on  the  highway,  had  not  taken  any 
notice  of  me ;  these  gave  me  sad  looks,  but  said  nothing. 
I  was  uncomfortable ;  it  seemed  as  though  they  were 
mourning  over  my  fate.  As  for  me,  badly  off  as  they  were, 
I  did  not  pity  them,  never  thought  of  doing  so. 

"  I  said  to  myself,  Suppose  I  go  to  them  !  I  did  try. 
I  went  aside,  and  got  upon  the  path;  the  stones  rolled 
down.  I  felt  weary,  as  if  I  had  been  beaten ;  I  hurt  my 
foot  against  a  pebble,  and  returned  to  the  meadow.  Then 
those  in  the  path  looked  at  me  more  sadly  than  before, 
and  went  on. 

"  I  had  a  weight  at  my  heart.  But  evening  was  closing 
in ;  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  going  on,  though  as  I  went 
I  trembled.  A  fear  came  over  me.  All  at  once  it  broke 
upon  me  that  we  were  all  going  towards  death.  Then  I 
tried  to  get  back  into  the  path  ;  but  there  was  no  longer 
any  path,  any  travellers,  only  the  great  green  meadow 
stretching  far  as  eye  could  reach,  and  I  was  walking  alone 
in  the  middle  of  it. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !" 

Lisette  was  in  tears  !     Then  she  recovered. 

"At  the  end  of  the  great  meadow,  I  saw  a  beautiful 
dwelling ;  a  square  house,  very  large,  very  high,  not  one 
side  larger  or  higher  than  the  other.  This  house  was  of 
gold,  bright  as  the  sun  at  noon ;  the  grass  went  close  up  to 
the  walls  ;  the  setting  sun  shone  through  the  clear  windows, 
and  fell  upon  it 


24  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

"  A  great  rush  of  joy  came  over  me  !  I  was  happy  !  No 
one  had  told  me  so,  but  I  knew  quite  well  that  this  dwell 
ing  was  the  Paradise  of  God.  When  I  came  close  to  it,  I 
looked  for  the  door  ;  there  was  none  on  that  side  ;  thei  e 
were  only  the  large  windows,  with  their  bright  panes, 
transparent  as  water,  the  red  sunset  darting  through  them. 
I  wrent  round  the  house ;  no  door.  I  went  round  again ; 
none.  There  was  only  the  grass  and  the  windows.  I  felt, 
searched  about.  Fear  came  over  me  again.  At  last  I 
returned  to  the  front,  and  looked  up.  Behind  one  of  the 
windows  of  clear  glass,  I  saw  an  old  woman  like  myself. 
only  handsomely  dressed  in  black  silk,  with  white  hair, 
and  a  severe,  though  sweet  look,  sitting  up  and  knitting. 
She  went  on  knitting,  without  seeing  me.  She  looked 
very  happy.  I  cried  out,  or  seemed  to  do  so.  Then  she 
turned  towards  me.  '  You  have  made  a  mistake,'  she  said ; 
'  you  did  not  take  the  right  road.  You  will  not  get  in, 
my  daughter.'  Then,  with  a  calm  face,  she  took  to  her 
knitting  again ;  and  as  for  me,  I  fell  dead." 

You  are  inclined,  perhaps,  to  laugh ;  if  you  had  seen 
Lisette,  you  would  not  have  been  so.  She  was  pale ;  fear, 
that  fear  of  God  which  hath  torment,  had  got  hold  of  her. 
She  turned  and  re-turned  her  dream  in  her  mind.  She 
could  not  treat  it  lightly ;  she  was  too  pious  for  that.  She 
could  not  pray;  the  servile  dread  of  the  slave  paralysed 
her  heart. 

"Lisette,"  I  said,  "you  have  told  me  a  dream;  I  will 
tell  you  a  story,  a  very  short  one. 

"  One  spring  day  in  Judea,  just  as  the  corn  was  ripening, 
a  crowd  was  coming  out  of  the  city.  With  much  tumult 
and  loud  cries,  they  were  leading  three  men  to  execution. 
Of  these  three,  two  had  killed,  stolen,  pillaged ;  they  were 


L ISE  TTE 'S  DREAM.  25 

Sieves :  the  other  had  announced  God's  pardon;  it  was 
Jesus. 

"  They  nailed  them  to  the  cross.  One  of  the  criminal? 
insulted  Jesus;  the  other,  suddenly  struck,  said — 'Dost 
thou  not  fear  God  1  as  for  us,  we  are  punished  justly ;  but 
this  man!'  Then  turning  to  Jesus, — 'Lord,  remember 
me!'  He  got  in  safe,  Lisette  !  What  road,  then,  had  he 
taken?" 

Lisette  kept  a  solemn  silence ;  a  divine  light  dispelled 
the  shadows  on  her  brow. 

"  Neither  the  highway,  nor  that  terrible  mountain  path, 
had  he,  Lisette?" 

Lisette  looked  at  me ;  her  beautiful  black  eyes  shone ; 
the  swast,  pure  smile  played  round  her  mouth.  "  He  be 
lieved,"  she  said. 

That  day  we  philosophised  no  more. 

Her  husband  came  back ;  the  children  ran  in ;  the  hens 
popped  their  beaks  in  at  the  half-opened  door.  Lisette 
returned  to  her  winding ;  I  to  the  road  that  led  down  into 
the  valley. 

At  the  present  time,  many  winters  have  passed  since 
Lisette  entered  the  golden  house. 

Does  she  knit  on,  from  age  to  age,  impassive  in  her 
beatitude,  by  the  side  of  that  matron  with  the  silver  hair  ? 
I  do  not  think  so ;  I  believe  her  living,  active  in  heaven  as 
on  earth.  All  anxiety  over,  immutable  happiness,  supreme 
life,  reveal  their  mysteries  to  her  ardent  soul 


THE  THREE  ROSES, 

[HEEE  roses  early  faded  en  earth ;  tnree  roses 
which  bloom  in  heaven. 

They  were  three ;  their  name  was  Rose ;  they 
died  before  they  were  twenty. 

They  belonged  to  the  same  family;  were,  I  believe, 
cousins ;  but  they  hardly,  if  at  all,  knew  each  other,  be 
cause  of  their  difference  of  age.  When  one  was  being 
carried  to  the  grave,  the  other,  flaxen-haired  and  laughing, 
was  playing  in  her  spring-time  along  the  roadside. 


I  saw  the  first  when  she  was  quite  a  child.  She  lived 
with  her  father,  her  mother,  and  a  brother  younger  than 
herself,  in  a  farm  on  the  border  of  a  wood. 

We  shall  not  have  to  go  far  into  the  wood.  I  only  want 
you  to  know  that  the  farmhouse  was  spacious,  well-built, 
turned  full  towards  the  cast;  with  a  roof  that  projected 
like  a  cowl,  as  though  the  better  to  protect  the  family : 
that  a  splendid  row  of  hives  filled  the  garden  with  their 
humming ;  that  the  garden  itself  had  rose-trees  that  were 
a  perfect  spectacle,  red  poppies,  heart's-ease,  marigolds; 
that  the  vine,  with  its  golden  leaves,  had  crept  to  the 
granary;  and  that  the  wood  of  planted  oak-trees — vener 
able  oaks,  their  stems  lost  in  the  coppice  below — was  the 
home  of  all  the  bees  in  the  country.  They  formed  a  great 


THE  THREE  ROSES.  27 

aviary,  open  to  the  sky, — where,  from  daybreak,  blackbirds 
whistled,  and  tomtits,  chaffinches,  wrens,  robin-redbreasts, 
and  the  whole  tribe  of  vocalists,  kept  up  such  a  chatter 
that  the  nightingale,  though  he  bred  there,  had  some  diffi 
culty  in  maintaining  his  supremacy.  However,  when  he 
•lid  set  to  in  good  earnest,  you  heard  no  one  else.  He 
filled  all  the  forest  nooks  with  his  loud  gushes  of  song. 

There  is  one  exquisite  hour  in  an  oak-wood;  that  par 
ticular  moment  in  spring  when  the  underwood  is  all  green, 
while  the  old  trees  are  not  yet  fully  out.  At  their  feet 
there  is  an  inveterate  entanglement  of  honeysuckle,  elder- 
bushes,  clematis, — all  vigorous,  full-grown,  in  the  first  glory 
of  their  first  leaves,  with  tall  plants  intermingled ;  while 
above,  at  a  great  height,  spreads  the  light  dome  of  the 
mighty  trees.  Look  where  you  will,  it  is  luminous ;  there 
is  above  you,  rather  a  green  cloud — an  emerald  transpa 
rency — than  decided  verdure.  The  very  atmosphere  is 
green ;  green  seems  floating  in  the  air,  blending  with  the 
blue  of  the  sky.  There  are  none  of  the  intense  tones  of 
summer ;  none  of  the  warm  colouring,  the  broad,  massive 
touches  of  July ;  everything  is  distinct,  everywhere  there 
is  shade ;  and  against  the  soft  green  of  the  young  foliage 
you  can  trace  the  bold  outlines  of  the  dark  trunks  and  the 
gnarled  branches  of  the  oaks. 

In  these  woods,  Hose  and  her  brother  gathered  glorious 
nosegays;  in  April,  of  the  periwinkle,  which  covered  the 
ground  with  its  blue  stars;  in  May,  of  the  lily  of  the 
valley,  which  hides  itself  beneath  the  brambles,  and  grows 
in  the  shade  over  the  roots  of  the  old  oaks.  Oh,  delight 
of  being  there  well  concealed !  of  creeping  along  in  spite 
of  a  thousand  scratches  !  and  while  the  nightingale  dwells 
upon  some  wondrous  note,  all  the  other  birds  warbling  too, 
of  looking  for,  step  by  step,  then  suddenly  coming  upon,  a 


28  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

very  show  of  select  treasures !  "  Are  not  there  lots  of 
them  1"  "  Shall  I  shout  to  my  brother  V  Conscience  de 
liberates  ;  meanwhile  the  hand  is  busy ;  it  gathers,  gathers. 
There  they  are,  those  darling  lilies  !  pure,  modest  flowers  ! 
There  they  are  !  very  straight,  very  strong ;  with  their 
little  reversed  urns,  the  lowest  in  blow,  the  highest  in  bud 
There  are  others  on  the  mountains;  delicate,  differently 
shaped,  more  ethereal  in  their  perfume ;  but  they  are  not 
the  true  lily  of  the  valley ;  the  genuine,  the  old-fashioned, 
the  lily  of  the  valley  of  our  songs,  of  our  grandmothers. 
So  they  are  left ;  the  wood-pea  too,  with  its  changing 
colour,  the  orchis,  everything  but  the  lilies  are  left.  The 
fingers  can  scarcely  close  over  the  bunch  gathered.  What 
a  smell  of  spring  !  the  very  ideal  of  freshness  !  You  would 
say  that  it  contained  all  the  magic  of  the  month  of  May; 
the  clear  sky,  the  young  foliage,  the  birds'  song. 

Little  shouts  are  interchanged. 

"  Have  you  found  some  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"A  good  place  1" 

Silence. 

There  is  no  pursuit  where  selfishness  shews  itself  more 
plainly  than  in  this  pursuit  of  lilies  of  the  valley.  One  is 
silent.  To  say  no,  would  be  a  falsehood  ;  to  say  yes,  would 
be  to  lose  one's  prize.  So  we  make  all  the  haste  we  can  ; 
if  scrupulous,  we  murmur  something  very  vague  indeed ; 
and  the  treasures  secured,  we  slip  away,  far  away,  to  some 
other  fragrant  hiding-place,  all  covered  with  white  bells. 

In  this  manner  Rose  went  through  the  wood;  and  when 
she  reached  the  high  ground,  where  the  lilies  do  not  ven 
ture,  she  got  uneasy,  and  called  her  brother,  who  came, 
»dth  trousers  torn,  and  three  poor  sprigs  in  his  hand. 

•'  All  that !"  she  said,  and  then  shewed  her  great  bunch. 


THE  THREE  ROSES.  29 

"  Oh !"  sighed  the  little  fellow ;  and  his  poor  flowers 
dropped  from  his  fingers.  Then  they  walked  on  that  short, 
smooth,  elastic  mountain  sod,  which  spreads  itself  out,  as 
it  were,  at  random. 

This  open  ground  belongs  to  no  one  in  particular ;  it  is 
a  common,  where  on  Sundays  old  and  young  walk,  in  the 
week,  sheep  graze, — a  hall  of  verdure,  shaded  here  and 
there  by  some  ancient  oak  ;  neither  field  nor  meadow,  only 
turf,  trees,  mountain  flowers ;  a  place  of  which  no  one 
says,  "  It  is  mine,"  "  It  is  John's,"  "  It  is  Peter's,"— it  is 
the  domain  of  the  poor,  of  children,  of  all ;  it  is  the  one 
little  spot  which  Poetry,  driven  out  by  potatoes,  may  claim 
as  her  own. 

Rose  wandered  there,  arranging  her  nosegay ;  her 
brother  trotted  and  gambolled  about.  Neither  of  them 
looked  at  the  Alps  on  the  horizon,  or  the  blue  lake  in  the 
distance,  motionless  in  the  midst  of  its  green  cup.  They 
did  not  listen  to  the  bells  that  were  ringing — that  grave 
harmony,  dilating  in  the  air ;  they  hardly  felt  the  morning 
breeze  careering  over  the  country ;  the  sloping  turf,  that 
grew  wilder,  and  began  here  and  there  to  be  dotted  with 
pines  :  the  great  mountain  blocks,  the  hamlets  surrounded 
with  orchards  ;  the  scattered  houses  of  various  styles ; — all 
this,  that  would  have  delighted  a  painter,  they  were  hardly 
aware  of.  They  walked  on  at  random,  wrapped  in  a  ray  of 
soft  yellow  light,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  magical 
scene  around. 

And  yet  it  is  these  May  delights ;  this  free  breath  of 
the  woods ;  it  is  the  scent  of  the  pine,  the  perfume  of  the 
lily  ;  the  skies  of  our  valleys,  shut  in  by  the  peaks  of  our 
Alps,  the  dark  sides  of  Jura, — it  is  all  this,  on  the  plains 
of  laughing  Italy,  which  rises  to  the  heart  of  our  sons,  and 
causes  them  to  desert  or  tc  die ;  it  is  this,  too,  which,  in 


30  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

the  midst  of  cities,  comes  and  whispers  to  them  I  know 
not  wLat  enchanted  words,  which  tarnish  all  the  luxury 
around,  and  make  their  tears  flow. 

On  Sunday,  the  court  of  the  old  manor-house  was 
opened  to  the  village  children.  Rose  and  her  brother  ran 
off  there  in  haste,  through  vineyards  and  meadows.  That 
was  the  place  for  amusement !  Good  people,  those  people 
of  the  manor-house  ;  no  pride  about  them, — visionary,  let 
ting  every  one  have  his  own  way. 

The  children  in  troops — there  were  at  least  sixty  of  them 
— seated  on  benches,  under  the  shade  of  great  plane-trees, 
their  legs  hanging  down,  and  swinging  to  and  fro  to  mark 
the  rhyme,  sang  plaintive  songs.  Verse  followed  verse- 
simple,  and  rather  sad — accompanied  by  the  monotonous 
music  of  two  fountains ;  then  the  children  darted  off  all  at 
once,  like  a  flight  of  starlings,  no  one  knew  why,  and 
formed  great  circles,  enclosing  the  whole  court,  singing 
catches — "(Test  le  chevalier  du  guet ;  c'est  un  beau  cMteau" 
&c. — which  were  still  plaintive,  so  surely  is  there  melan 
choly  at  the  roct  of  all  things,  even  of  pleasure.  Suddenly 
the  circle  would  break  up  ;  then  came  wild  races,  screams, 
joy  in  simple  existence. 

Rose,  a  little  frightened,  played  by  herself  in  a  comer, 
making  discreet  little  springs  and  jumps  of  her  own.  Her 
brother  threw  himself  into  the  midst  of  the  games  and 
dances,  and,  shaking  his  curly  head,  bounded  as  the  lambs 
bound  amongst  the  wild  thyme. 

When  evening  cume,  all  went  home  again ;  the  others  in 
troops,  these  two  alone.  Rose  and  her  brother  passed 
timidly,  for  it  was  nightfall — under  the  white  church, 
under  the  cemetery.  The  moon,  shining  in  the  sky,  ac 
companied  them  with  her  soft  glance.  They  quickened 
their  step  as  they  got  near  the  wood. 


THE  THREE  ROSES.  31 

Here  are  the  gardens  !  here  are  the  beans  !  here  are  our 
cabbages!  They  recovered  their  voices;  nay,  the  brother 
returned  home  like  a  hero,  bellowing  out  in  his  deepest 
tones  some  rough  vintage  song.  Once  at  home,  there  was 
the  bright  fire,  the  mother,  and  they  recounted  ah1  the 
wonders  of  the  manor-house. 

One  Sunday,  neither  the  brother  nor  th<*  sister  came. 

The  boy  was  stretched  out  in  his  little  bed,  at  the 
foot  of  his  parents'  large  one.  Beside  him  sat  his  father, 
gloomy,  hollow-eyed,  and  speechless.  The  mother  was  on 
her  knees,  raising  her  child.  Hose  looked  on,  wondering 
and  silent. 

Death  was  hovering  round  the  child's  brow.  His  com 
plexion  was  not  livid,  his  features  were  not  drawn;  but 
by  the  glory  spread  over  the  face,  by  the  eye  swimming 
in  ethereal  brightness,  you  knew  well  that  he  was  about 
to  go. 

"Mother,  mother!'*  he  said,  looking  through  the  open 
window  at  the  sky.  His  mother  leaned  forward,  and 
grew  pale.  "  Mother,  I  see  beautiful  angels  !  Do  you 
see  them,  father?"  Then  he  stretched  out  his  arms,  and 
passed  away. 

Years,  too,  passed  away. 

Rose  was  growing  up.  She  was  a  young  girl — hand 
some,  sensible,  sedate,  leading  a  retired  kind  of  life.  You 
met  her  sometimes  when  they  were  thinning  the  vines, 
her  petticoats  tucked  up,  a  load  of  vine  leaves  lightly 
balanced  on  her  head.  With  one  finger  she  steadied  it ; 
the  branches,  with  their  indented  leaves,  fell  round  her, 
veiling  her  slight  figure;  she  walked  with  that  firm, 
modest,  active  step,  which  carries  young  working  girls  to 
their  home.  If  you  happened  to  stop  her  for  a  moment, 
her  cheeks  crimsoned,  she  looked  at  you  innocently,  then 


32  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

retumed  a  few  timid  words,  neither  bold  nor  awkward 
then  went  on  her  way,  and  you  asked  yourself  what  wood* 
nymph  had  brushed  you  by  with  her  robe. 

Her  eighteenth  birthday  came ;  the  village  band  came 
too,  one  fine  July  twilight,  after  the  harvest  was  over. 

The  violins  came,  scraping ;  they  were  heard  from  a 
distance ;  they  came  all  through  the  village,  through  the 
wood ;  the  young  men  walking  after  them,  then  the  girls. 

"I'll  run  away  !"  said  Rose. 

"  Simpleton ! "  returned  her  mother,  half  through  timid 
ity,  half  for  fear  of  any  talk. 

The  clarionet  sounded  gaily,  the  notes  dropped  off  like 
pearls,  capered  with  a  shrill  falsetto,  which  made  the  woods 
laugh  again.  Rose  was  agitated ;  she  felt  her  feet  dance 
under  her.  Her  heart  beat,  her  eyes  shone,  and  yet  she 
could  have  wished  herself  on  the  very  top  of  the  mountain 
— far  away ! 

The  band  came  nearer,  the  playful  character  of  the  tune 
was  distinctly  heard — an  old-fashioned  German  waltz,  an 
irresistible  measure.  Yet  Rose  was  inclined  to  cry ;  it 
was  as  though  the  peace,  the  ignorance  of  her  youth,  were 
(lapping  their  wings  as  they  flew  away. 

Soon  you  could  distinguish  laughter,  you  heard  the 
rustling  of  leaves,  you  saw  the  procession  come  winding 
through  the  branches. 

"  Mother,  the  beautiful  angels  !"  What  voice  at  that 
moment  repeated  those  words  to  the  heart  of  RoseJ  AVhy 
are  mournful  images  so  often  conjured  up  by  a  burst  of 
laughter  rt  Rose  drew  back. 

"  Mother,  tell  them  not." 

But  her  mother,  a  simple  creature,  was  not  given  to 
J-ikc  the  initiative;  and,  besides,  Rose  was  eighteen — 
*>\vr}\t  she  not  to  go  with  the  rest?  if  she  kept  apart, 


THE  THREE  ROSES.  33 

folks  would  say  that  she  was  proud.  Ar/d  here  was  the 
band,  here  were  the  young  men  and  the  girls  deploying 
at  the  door. 

"  Now  then,  Rose,  we  are  come  for  you.  The  whole 
village,  you  see.  You  can't  think  of  affronting  us  !" 

And  as  Rose  seemed  to  shrink,  two  or  three  of  her 
young  friends  came  forward  from  the  rest. 

"  Come,  Rose  ! "  they  said,  taking  her  aside.  "  We  are 
going,  as  you  see ;  don't  vex  the  others  ;  if  you  knew  how 
good-naturedly  they  have  all  come  for  you  !  Can  there  be 
any  harm  in  amusing  ourselves  a  little  ? " 

As  they  were  talking,  they  led  her  on.  The  band  fol 
lowed  at  a  little  distance,  then  the  young  men,  then, 
further  off,  the  girls.  Soon  they  found  themselves  under 
the  oak-trees,  on  the  fine  mountain-sod.  They  began  to 
dance.  Was  Rose  happy  1  There  were,  indeed,  a  few 
moments  of  rapture.  All  made  much  of  her ;  every  now 
and  then  she  had  fits  of  flattered  vanity.  And  yet  she 
was  ill  at  ease.  She  recalled  her  little  room,  her  evening 
hymn  on  the  garden  bench,  while  the  moon  rose  slowly 
behind  the  oaks,  her  silent  walks  with  her  mother,  the 
freshness  of  the  fields  on  the  border  of  the  wood.  I  do 
not  know  whether  she  prayed  or  not.  Sundays  do  not 
end  well  so. 

At  intervals  'there  were  others  of  the  same  kind.  Rose 
found  little  pleasure  in  them. 

Young  girls  that  Jesus  has  once  visited  may,  indeed, 
wet  their  lips  at  the  cup  of  idle  pleasure ;  they  cannot 
drain  it.  One  who  has  enjoyed  long  communing  with 
God,  who  has  fed  upon  the  strong  meat  of  Scripture,  who 
early  in  life  has  bravely  fought  with  the  enemy — that  lion 
greedy  after  his  prey — -such  a  one  is  not  long  detained 
by  false  pleasures.  She  finds  there  too  many  snares,  too 


34  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

many  disappointments  await  lier ;  she  sighs  too  much  f;j; 
blessings  lost. 

For  the  world — what  I  mean  by  the  world,  is  not  to  be 
confounded  with  the  gaiety  that  befits  youth,  with  fresh 
laughter  and  innocent  meetings,  the  radiance,  the  har 
mony,  the  frank  outbursts  of  healthily  happy  hearts.  No ; 
it  is  frivolity,  dissipation  with  its  sad  commonplace  of 
paltry  jealousies,  spiteful  comments,  over-excited  vanity. 
It  is  the  heart  departing  from  God,  saying  to  the  Father, 
"  Give  me  my  portion,  that  I  may  enjoy  it  at  rny  ease 
far  from  Thee." 

Rose,  uneasy  and  dejected,  was  doing  this. 

The  Angel  of  Death  touched  her. 

It  wras  a  tedious  illness,  with  unexpected  changes  for  the 
better,  then  sudden  relapses;  yet  Hose  had  again  found 
happiness.  Long  weak,  then  confined  to  bed  ;  peace  shone 
upon  her  brow.  She  went  slowly  down  youth's  flowery 
slopes  ;  she  went  the  way  of  all  the  earth,  but  heaven  had 
opened  to  her.  A  little  sad  at  leaving  her  father  and  her 
mother,  she  had  a  fund  of  secret  joy  in  her  heart.  But 
this  had  not  been  won  without  some  struggles — some  efforts 
to  clutch  again  at  life.  There  were  days  when  earth  seemed 
beautiful,  Death  ccld, — when  that  unknown  tiling,  the  pas 
sage  between  the  two,  frightened  her.  These  days  came 
to  an  end,  others  rose  radiant,  when  heaven  was  so  near, 
J:he  hand  of  Jesus  so  strong,  that  the  young  girl  seemed  to 
walk  on  lightly,  modestly,  and  firmly,  as  when  in  former 
evenings  she  followed  the  homeward  path,  her  head  crowned 
with  vine  branches,  and  bathed  in  the  glow  of  sunset. 

One  night,  the  last,  she  asked — she,  who  would  suffer 
anything  rather  than  wake  her  father  and  mother — asked 
them  both  to  sit  up  with  her. 

"  See,  father  ;  see,  mother,  I  am  going  away.     God  has 


THE  THREE  LOSES.  35 

been  very  good  to  me.  Ever  since  that  Sunday  I  was  un- 
Jiappy  in  myself.  If  I  had  got  well,  perhaps  I  should  have 
gone  back  with  the  rest.  Where  I  am  going  God  will 
keep  me.  It  is  very  beautiful  there.  Do  not  cry.  You 
will  come  there,  father ;  you  will  come  there,  mother." 

That  was  all.  Kose  had  never  been  much  of  a  talker. 
>She  was  "  close/'  as  our  villagers  call  it. 

When,  the  night  nearly  spent,  two  struck  on  the  old 
wooden  clock ;  when  the  first  streak  of  morning,  rather  a 
pallor  than  a  light,  glided  in  the  east  between  the  Alps  and 
the  sky ;  when  came  that  shudder  of  the  dawn  which  de 
taches  so  many  lives ;  that  dubious  hour,  when  watchers  by 
the  sick  feel  their  eyes  grow  heavy ;  that  mysterious  hour 
when  the  dying  cease  to  struggle,  and  the  unseen  hand  cuts 
the  thread, — Eose,  with  one  bound,  leapt  from  her. bed. 

"  Father,  your  arm  ! "  she  cried.  Then  she  walked  up 
and  down,  trembling,  supported  by  her  father,  who  had 
waked  with  a  start  out  of  his  sorrowful  sleep.  Rose  stood 
.still  before  the  window  which  looked  to  the  east ;  the 
earliest  blackbirds  were  beginning  to  sing  in  the  wood; 
she  saw  the  reddening  horizon;  wonder  was  painted  on 
her  face,  something  of  timidity,  too  ;;  but  the  prevailing  ex 
pression  was  happiness. 

"Is  it  that,  father?" 

Her  father  clasped  her  tightly,  then  carried  back  the 
body  to  the  bed. 

Two  evenings  later,  the  white  dresses  were  again  seen 
winding  through  the  wood  paths,  under  the  oaks. 

In  the  farmhouse,  on  the  bed,  reposed  the  most  beauti- 
ful  corpse  it  was  possible  to  see. 

The  young  girls  entered  silently,  crowding  in  at  the  end 
of  the  little  room,  near  the  door,  looking  on  with  wide' 
opened  eyes  :  the  youths  stood  without. 


36  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

Rose  had  on  her  Sunday  dress ;  her  first  communion 
veil  was  thrown  over  her  head,  leaving  her  face  bare ;  the 
features  were  marble,  the  eyes  half  open,  the  expression 
grave,  almost  austere ;  only  the  hand  of  Jesus  had  impressed 
on  them  the  peace  of  heaven.  Her  hands  were  crossed. 
Above  them,  on  her  breast,  God's  book,  which  had  con 
soled  her ;  at  her  feet,  the  white  crown  which  her  young 
companions  had  brought. 

The  mother  made  no  ado,  nor  the  father  either.  Not  but 
what  their  anguish  was  great,  but  it  was  God's  doing. 
God  ripens  and  destroys  the  crops  ;  God  gives  our  bread 
and  takes  it  away.  He  knows  why;  He  is  our  Father; 
what  have  we  to  say  1 

They  placed  Rose  in  the  coffin ;  they  put  the  garland  on 
it ;  the  youths  carried  the  bier ;  the  young  girls  followed ; 
this  time  without  violins,  without  clarionets,  they  took  the 
road  to  the  wood. 

Three  Sundays  after,  on  the  turf,  not  far  from  the  church 
yard,  the  young  people  were  dancing. 

II. 

The  first  Rose  faded,  another  came.  A  white  rose ;  one 
of  those  roses  with  a  foreign  perfume  ;  a  hot-house  rose 
that  our  winters  kill 

Even  as  a  child  she  was  peculiar  ;  liable  to  bursts  of  im 
moderate  mirth  and  immoderate  depression ;  at  both  these 
alike,  her  father,  a  discreet,  deliberate  man,  frowned.  Hex 
mother  took  her  part  in  her  father's  presence,  but  secretly 
she  scolded  her  too. 

Awkward  at  her  work,  unpractical  in  daily  life,  Rose 
would  wander  about  dr3amily ;  sometimes  she  had  fits  of 
laughter;  sometimes  she  shut  herself  up  unsocially  in  a 


THE  THREE  ROSES.  37 

solitary  corner,  with  lips  compressed  and  a  gloomy  ex 
pression.  She  grew  up  amidst  reprimands ;  but  she  pre 
ferred  her  mother's  lectures  to  the  tacit  discontent  of  her 
father,  a  worthy  but  austere  man,  who  truly  loved  her. 

Her  parents  were  tolerably  well  off,  but  still  they  had'  to 
work.  As  for  working  in  the  fields,  this  Rose  plainly  could 
not  do  that ;  tall,  slender,  pale  as  she  was,  with  preter- 
naturally  large  deep  eyes,  a  transparent  aquiline  nose,  the 
nose  of  a  princess,  and  fair  hair  which  surrounded  her  with 
a  golden  halo.  They  determined  to  make  a  lady  of  her ; 
she  was  one  already.  . 

At  school  she  was  no  better  off  than  at  home.  She  had 
to  learn  ;  she  went  on  dreaming. 

At  last— 

"My  girl,"  said  her  father,  "we  have  had  enough  of 
masters ;  your  portion  has  been  spent  on  your  education  ; 
you  have  lots  of  learning,  gain  your  bread,  my  child ;  you 
could  not,  or  you  would  not,  do  so  in  the  field;  take  to 
teaching  in  your  turn." 

Rose  left  home.  Very  hard  the  life  of  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  house  !  There  are  mother's  kisses,  mother's  scold 
ings  for  the  children ;  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind  for  the 
governess.  She  is  looked  at  coldly,  and  if  she  has  faults 
one  remarks  them  to  one's-self,  one  does  not  tell  her  of 
them. 

Rose  suffered  less,  though,  than  in  her  village  life.  She 
was  in  the  midst  of  the  great  world  of  which  she  had  so 
long  dreamed  Still  hers  was  an  unsocial,  reserved  nature, 
with  wants  that  earth  does  not  satisfy.  She  expected  too 
much  from  life,  when  disappointed  she  shrunk  within  her 
self,  and  silently  turned  her  proud  head  away.  She  did 
not  succeed  in  practical  matters,  went  from  one  family  to 
another,  earned  little,  spent  much,  being  generous  to  the 


38  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

poor,  and  sell -indulgent  too.  Sometimes  she  returned  to 
her  father's,  discontented,  taciturn,  dressed  like  a  fashion 
able  lady.  Her  father  was  cold  in  manner  to  her,  her 
mother  gave  her  good  advice,  and  Rose  went  away  again. 

She  had  an  upright  heart,  av  straightforward  mind,  the 
purity  of  crystal,  only  there,  was  the  secret  frown  of  a  con 
stant  depression  on  her  brow ;  telling  of  a  missed  vocation, 
of  a  wasted  life.  One  spring  she  returned  ill,  but,  as  her 
cheeks  were  very  rosy,  and  her  eyes  flashed  bright,  her 
father  did  not  take  much  notice  of  it.  Besides,  Rose  got 
soon  tired  of  the  village.  The  forest  had  nothing  to  say 
to  her — she  had  not,  as  a  little  child,  gathered  strawberries 
in  July  along  its  fragrant  borders.  The  meadows  were 
gloomy ;  she  had  never  with  her  sisters  driven  thither  in 
October  the  red  cow,  the  black,  the  brindled.  The  Jura  ! 
oh,  that  dark  Jura  !  it  was  like  her  discontented  father,  it 
made  her  shiver. 

Rose,  though  an  invalid,  took  another  flight ;  she  went 
to  a  hot  climate,  which  speedily  kills  the  delicate. 

When  she  returned,  December  had  cast  its  winding-sheet 
over  the  earth.  She  was  taken  out  of  the  carriage  half 
dead.  This  time  her  father  felt  how  ill  she  was,  and  how 
much  he  loved  her.  They  took  her  into  the  best  room, 
her  mother  gave  her  her  own  large,  green-curtained  bed. 
Rose  was  colourless,  worn  out  by  a  hollow  cough,  but 
sometimes  fover  flushed  her  face ;  it  bloomed  as  the  Alps 
do  at  sunset,  only  to  look  like  them  the  paler  afterwards  ; 
her  large  eyes  and  her  abundant  hair  were  all  that  re 
mained  to  her. 

I  do  not  know  what  was  going  on  in  her  soul,  but  I  be 
lieve  that  there  was  a  great  conflict  there.  She  remained 
stiff,  haughty,  reserved.  She  was  quite  aware  that  she 
must  die,  but  death  dissatisfied  her  its  life  luwl  dissatisfied  ; 


THE  THREE  ROSES.  3S 

God  was  accomplishing  His  own  work  in  her  quite  alone  \ 
later  it  became  evident  He  was  leading  her  apart  along 
those  rough  paths  where  He  leaves  us  in  full  sight  of  our 
own  selves,  a  prey  to  our  own  will,  our  own  desires,  till 
broken  down  we  fall  on  our  knees,  arms  outstretched,  call 
ing  loudly  on  Him  who  saves. 

As  for  visits,  Kose  cared  little  for  them  •  besides,  her 
young  acquaintance,  being  afraid  of  her,  kept  back.  Her 
father,  who  had  been  moved  just  at  first,  relapsed  into 
silence ;  dying,  his  daughter  suited  him  no  better  than  she, 
had  done  when  well.  There  was  no  expansion;  there 
were  no  caresses.  Eose  seemed  frozen  ;  a  kiss  would  have 
dissolved  the  ice,  but  she  did  not  offer  one,  and  no  one 
else  dared  to  do  so.  She  laid  the  blame  of  her  unhappy 
existence  on  all  around  her ;  on  her  father,  the  village,  on 
God,  who  had  made  her  as  she  was.  As  to  whether  she 
regretted  life  or  feared  to  die,  no  one  could  say;  she 
listened  to  the  Bible,  to  prayer,  to  everything  with  closed 
lips,  her  large  eyes  flashing  out  of  their  sunken  orbits. 
Only  her  mother,  watching  narrowly,  sometimes  saw  great 
tears  suddenly  gather  there  and  overflow ;  then  she  would 
clasp  her  in  her  arms.  Rose  only  turned  her  head  away, 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillows,  and  answered  nothing.  Her 
father  murmured:  "My  daughter,  my  daughter!"  A 
thrill  would  pass  through  her  weak  frame,  a  transient 
light ;  then  Rose,  sad,  with  brow  paler  than  ever,  but  lips 
still  closed,  would  resume  her  proud  look  and  dream  on  in 
silence. 

No  one  had  dared  question  her  as  to  her  faith.  "  She 
believes,"  her  mother  would  say ;  a  mother's  eye  can  see 
to  the  bottom  of  the  heart. 

There  was  an  unnatural  stillness  in  the  air.  In  that 
quiet  room,  entered  and  left  so  noiselessly,  where  meals 


40  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

were  taken  at  regular  hours,  where  in  the  evenings  tliG 
father  sat  reading  to  himself  by  the  lamp-light,  while  thp 
mother  sewed,  there  brooded  a  deeper  sadness,  a  more  in 
tense  woe  than  bursts  of  weeping  ever  expressed. 

The  darkest  despairs  are  the  most  silent ;  and  it  was 
one  of  these  which  the  heart  of  Rose  concealed ;  no  dis 
appointed  love,  no  foolish  hopes  deceived.  No ;  but  let 
her  thoughts  turn  where  they  would,  from  her  first  days  to 
her  last,  she  could  not  find  one  happy  moment,  not  one  ! 
And  now  where  was  she  going  1  What  would  be  her  fate 
in  presence  of  that  God  from  whom  she  had  asked  nothing, 
had  received  nothing  ?  In  her  hours  of  pride,  indeed,  she 
tried  to  contend  with  Him,  but  her  daring  only  left  her 
more  desolate, — the  darkness  thickened,  she  was  appalled 
at  herself. 

One  evening  it  was  getting  dark,  the  wind  was  driving 
the  snow-showers  along  the  deserted  streets ;  you  heard 
nothing  except  the  wooden  shoes  of  some  belated  frequenter 
of  the  public-house.  It  was  cold,  gloomy ;  the  lamp  was 
not  yet  lighted ;  the  father  was  musing,  his  back  against 
the  stove;  the  mother,  with  her  elbow  resting  on  the 
•window,  watched  the  falling  flakes,  one  side  of  her  face 
whitened  by  their  reflection.  Rose  was  motionless  in  the 
large  bed,  breathing  unevenly ;  she  seemed  dozing. 

All  at  once,  "My  father,  my  mother  !"  Could  that,  in 
deed,  be  Rose's  voice  ?  had  it  such  touching  inflexions  ? 

"  Come,  come,  dear  father,  and  you,  mother,  too  !" 

Her  father  staggered ;  he  felt  as  though  something 
heavenly  had  lighted  in  the  room,  his  limbs  shook  as  he 
approached  the  bed  ;  the  mother  was  kneeling  there  already. 
Half  raising  herself,  Rose  was  looking  at  them ;  oh,  never 
in  he.r  best  days  had  she  looked  at  them  so ;  her  trembling 
hand  sought  theirs ! 


THE  THREE  ROSES.  41 

"  Pray,  pray,  my  father !  Father,  forgive  me.  I  lovo 
you  !  Oh,  what  good  it  does  me  to  tell  you  so  !  I  could 

not  before I  have  been  a  bad  daughter,  my  father, 

proud,  exacting ;  I  have  not  made  you  happy Kiss 

me,  mother ;  my  father,  my  father  ! "  and  s~Ue  clasped  him 
in  her  arms. 

Her  father  and  mother  wept ;  her  father  most ;  there 
was  a  something  of  remorse,  a  more  intense  tenderness 
wringing  his  heart. 

"  Poor  child  ! "  sobbed  the  mother ;  "  must  thou,  then, 
indeed  go  1 " 

"  Say  blessed  child,  say  redeemed  !  O  my  mother,  this 
is  the  first  happiness  I  have  ever  known  !  Jesus  has  found 
me  !  Mother,  it  is  sweet  to  die  ! " 

What  kisses,  what  forgivenesses  were  exchanged !  what 
fervour  of  heart  kindled  between  these  three  poor  souls 
who  had  believed  they  did  not  much  love  each  other! 
Their  daughter,  so  beautiful,  so  gentle,  so  dutiful;  thei? 
daughter,  as  they  had  dreamed  her,  was  actually  there, 
their  arms  were  round  her,  their  eyes  fed  upon  her  face, — 
and  she  was  about  to  die. 

But  as  for  her,  -an  ineffable  rapture  filled  her  heart. 
Heaven  awaited  her ;  earth,  before  relinquishing,  lavished 
on  her  all  its  treasures.  In  an  instant,  like  one  who  gleans 
in  haste,  her  hand  snatched  all  the  richest  sheaves.  A 
moment  is  as  a  thousand  years  to  one  about  to  enter  on 
eternal  day.  She  had  reaped  all ;  she  regretted  nothing. 
Of  f-h/>,  love  of  her  father  and  mother,  nothing  henceforth 
could  ever  deprive  her ;  the  love  of  her  God  shone  round 
about  her.  In  this  glory  she  departed. 

The  Lord  has  sudden  unfoldings,  such  as  these,  for  souls 
long  closed.  For  beaten-down  stalks  He  has  looks  which 
ripen  into  a  golden  harvest ;  He  has  warm  rains  for 


42  THE  IfEAR  HORIZONS. 

parch ed-up  ground;  He  lias  royal  compassions,  at  which 
the  hosts  of  angels  break  into  hallelujahs  of  praise  thai 
ring  from  heaven  to  heaven. 

III. 

They  had  all  been  working  hard  :  in  the  meadows  get 
ting  the  hay  in ;  in  the  vineyard,  cutting  the  leaves ;  in 
the  fields,  tying  up  the  sheaves.  July  was  drawing  to  a 
close. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  mother  to  me,  "  what  ails  my 
Rose.  She  has  fretted  too  much  for  the  father ;  she  has 
over-tired  herself.  It  will  be  no  harm  though,  I  am  sure." 
But  evidently  her  heart  was  heavy. 

On  the  morrow,  the  doctor  paid  a  visit  to  the  little  room. 
One  reached  it  by  a  wooden  staircase  outside  the  house ; 
the  window  got  all  the  sun,  and  looked  on  a  small  garden. 
A  young  girl  sat  there  sewing  away  as  fast  as  she  could, — 
a  slender  form,  with  a  fair,  innocent  face.  Her  mothei 
was  standing  a  little  behind  her. 

When  the  doctor  entered,  the  young  girl  looked  at  him 
in  amazement,  rose,  blushed  deeply,  then  suddenly  dropped 
down  again  on  her  chair,  in  all  the  bashfulness  of  sixteen. 

She  had  never  left  her  mother;  had  never  been  to 
dances ;  never  run  about  the  roads  in  the  evenings,  hand 
in  hand  with  other  girls,  singing  rounds  as  long  as  the 
moonlight  lasted ;  not  that  she  was  unsociable,  or  proud, 
but  she  knew  better  things  than  these  ;  and  then  she  loved 
her  mother,  she  mourned  her  father.  To  sew  in  her  little 
room,  to  weed  the  garden,  cut  the  vines,  make  hay,  beat 
hemp  in  autumn,  go  to  church  on  Sundays,  sing  hymn*, 
return  to  sit  on  the  benches  of  the  school,  where,  as  a  child, 
she  had  been  taught  to  love  God, — these  were  her  delight*. 


THE  THREE  ROSES.  43 

These  delights  were  so  true  and  holy,  that  never  face 
beamed  with  more  serene  brightness  than  did  hers. 

But  this  visit  of  the  doctor  wearied  her.  She  sick, 
indeed  !  Certainly  she  felt  tired,  she  did  not  eat ;  but  was 
that  any  reason  for  bringing  that  fine  gentleman  here  ? 

I  have  always  thought  that  the  scene,  put,  just  as  it  was, 
upon  canvas,  would  have  produced  one  of  those  touching 
pictures  for  which  amateurs  pay  their  weight  in  gold. 
The  doctor,  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  lip  denned 
by  a  delicate  moustache,  bright  brow,  keen  eye,  firm  and 
smiling  mouth,  was  examining  the  young  girl  Rose  was 
seated  in  the  full  sunlight,  she  cast  her  long-lashed  eyelids 
down ;  sometimes,  though,  she  raised  them,  and  then  her 
limpid  glance  was  fixed  on  the  doctor  without  any  timidity ; 
her  mouth  was  almost  severely  grave,  only  when  some  sally 
of  his  made  her  mother  laugh,  a  smile,  gayer  than  a  sun 
beam,  passed  over  her  lips,  then  a  deep  flush  rose  to  her 
cheeks ;  then  again  she  sat  stiff  and  motionless,  as  though 
she  were  about  to  have  her  portrait  taken. 

The  visit  over,  the  doctor  left.  The  mother,  who  was 
uneasy,  followed  him  into  the  kitchen. 

"  She  may  recover,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  She  is  very  ill,  then  V9 

"  She  may  recover." 

The  prescription  written  out,  he  left,  walked  on  some 
way,  then,  turning  to  me,  he  said,  "  But  she  will  die." 

I  often  saw  her  after  that,  that  rustic  Rose, — that  sweet- 
brier  of  the  woods,  that  never  opened  out  fully  save  to  God 
and  to  her  mother. 

Her  soul  had  the  transparency  of  a  crystal ;  she  had  its 
sharp  angles  too,  something  which  might  have  been  a  little 
hard,  but  that  her  native  sweetness,  and  the  humility  of 
the  Christian  softened  it  down.  Truth  came  nakedly  from 


44  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

her  lips.  She  told  you  what  she  liked,  and  what  she  did 
not  like,  without  any  circumlocution.  She  only  knew  the 
yea,  yea,  nay,  nay,  of  the  gospel,  and  with  that  she  had  so 
much  graceful  ingenuousness,  cordial  affection.  Hers  was 
one  of  those  individualities  mightily  developed  by  the 
Bible ;  uniting  all  the  simplicity  of  the  village,  the  inex 
perience  of  her  age,  and  of  her  retired  way  of  life,  with 
extremely  delicate  perceptions,  keen  discernment,  and  great 
knowledge  of  her  own  heart.  She  shewed  sometimes  the 
blank  amazement  of  a  bird  that  has  just  left  the  nest ;  she 
cast  a  stupified  glance  upon  what  of  the  world  came  within 
her  notice ;  at  other  times  she  would  utter  some  deep  say 
ing  that  a  master-mind  might  have  gladly  claimed. 

Rose  was  no  maker  of  speeches,  but  when  one  brought 
her  flowers  or  fruit — for  the  time  soon  came  when  she  could 
not  gather  any  for  herself— her  face  lit  up,  her  pretty  teeth 
sparkled ;  she  would  say,  with  a  blush,  "  It  is  too  much," 
then  look  at  her  mother,  and  one  felt  that  for  such  a  look 
one  would  willingly  despoil  orchard  and  garden. 

There  are  hours  of  fugitive  joy,  there  is  an  efflorescence 
of  happiness  on  pale  faces,  which  infuses  heavenly  felicity 
into  one's  heart ;  how  one  blesses  God  when  one  has  been 
the  means  of  calling  these  forth  !  what  deep  disgrace  to  do 
this  so  seldom  !  and  yet  how  slight  a  thing  may  have  the 
desired  effect. 

Rose  suffered  tortures ;  death  had  to  wrestle  with  ail  the 
strength  of  sixteen.  She  did  all  she  could  to  conceal  them, 
but  it  was  hardly  possible;  it  was  as  though  she  were 
broken  on  the  wheel.  At  such  times  she  would  clasp  both 
her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck,  and  hide  her  face  in  her 
breast;  then  she  would  raise  herself,  and  look  into  her 
eyes  with  her  clear,  confiding  glance.  Her  mother  turned 
away,  and  wept. 


THE  THREE  ROSES.  45 

Never  were  there  greater  sufferings  in  any  poor  body, 
never  greater  peace  in  any  soul.  It  was  one  of  those 
easily  detached  lives  that  the  Lord  just  touches  and  which 
fall  off  like  a  vestment.  This  mother  was  a  widow,  this 
daughter  was  in  all  the  brilliancy  of  her  first  youth,  they 
loved  each  other,  and  yet  they  tranquilly  advanced — the 
one  torn  to  pieces,  but  submissive;  the  other  a  little  sad, 
but  composed — towards  that  turn  in  the  road  where  they 
had  to  bid  each  other  farewell.  It  was  done  simply,  with 
out  much  speaking,  without  any  transports.  The  daughter 
saw  plainly  that  she  was  going  to  die,  the  mother  had 
known  it  long.  Kose  had  asked  no  questions,  her  mother 
had  kept  nothing  back ;  they  walked  on  side  by  side,  day 
after  day;  the  last  day  would  come  when  God  pleased. 

These  hidden  existences  are  nearer  to  heaven  than  ours. 
These  lives,  which  unfold  so  quietly,  are  better  prepared 
for  a  sudden  close.  They  have  not  so  much  to  leave,  they 
are  more  accustomed  to  receive  everything,  good  and  bad, 
directly  from  the  hand  of  God,  the  soul's  relations  with 
Him  are  more  simple,  the  habit  of  obedience  more  strongly 
formed. 

There  was  nothing  triumphant  about  the  departure  of 
Rose.  Some  deaths  are  glorious ;  hers  advanced  quiet, 
modest,  a  little  austere  like  herself,  at  times  illuminated 
with  rays  from  above. 

Neither  mother  nor  daughter  troubled  themselves  about 
an  earthly  future.  Her  mother  would  say — 

"  Afterwards,  why,  I  shall  be  dull  enough ;  but  I  shall 
not  be  alone,  nor  long  in  this  world." 

Then  Kose  would  look  at  her.  "  He  will  not  forsake 
you,  mother." 

She  had  always  pretty  children  about  her — the  children 
of  a  brother  and  sister  settled  in  the  village.  Little  boys 


46  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

with  merry  faces,  very  noisy  fellows,  but  quiet  there ;  a 
cradle,  and  under  green  cloth  curtains  a  fresh  little  face, 
smiles  without  a  cause,  and  mottled  hands,  beating  the 
coverlet.  Then  the  brow  of  Rose  would  flush  with  vivid 
light,  her  eyes  swim  in  ecstasy,  her  heart  bound  high ;  you 
would  have  taken  her  for  one  of  Perugino's  Madonnas;  she 
had  the  same  pure  outline,  the  same  repressed  ecstasy,  the 
same  fulness  of  holy  love. 

Flowers,  too,  charmed  her,  and  she  always  had  them  in 
profusion ;  wild  flowers,  gathered  by  her  former  compan 
ions,  and  stuffed  into  great  burly  jars ;  in  April  the  peri 
winkle,  in  May  the  lily  of  the  valley,  in  June  the  honey 
suckle,  in  July  the  sage,  the  pink,  the  red  poppy,  with  the 
corn-flower,  the  sweetbrier,  the  mignonette,  mixed  with  a 
few  green  ears  of  corn.  Rose  would  take  them  one  by 
one,  and  look  at  them  long.  "  They  are  beautiful — they 
are  sweet !  .  .  .  .  Last  year  I  used  to  gather  them  myself, 
great  aprons  full  of  them."  Then  she  grew  silent;  then 
suddenly  raising  her  eyes,  and  looking  at  her  mother,  "  You 
must  not  cry,  mother,  I  'm  not  fretting  over  myself/' 

And  yet  Rose  had  her  heart-sinkings,  had  hours  when 
her  heart  turned  back  towards  life.  There  would  come 
across  her  images  of  health,  of  pleasure,  even  of  those  noisy 
pleasures  which  she  had  refused.  But  this  did  not  last. 
"  I  am  very  wicked,"  she  would  say  ;  she  clasped  her  hands : 
her  calm  returned. 

One  day,  quite  confused,  she  said,  "  Could  you  believe  it, 
mother  1  I  am  thinking  of  my  white  frock,  my  first  com 
munion  frock  !  I  have  only  worn  it  once,  mother.  .  .  .  You 
will  put  it  on  me,  will  you  not  ?M 

The  mother,  with  wrung  heart  and  closed  lips,  stood  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  ardently  looking  at  her  child. 

*'  Will  they  give  me  the  crown  ?  the  beautiful  crown,  with 


THE  TUREE  ROSES.  47 

roses,  omnge  flowers,  and  hawthorn  V  .  .  .  The  tears  ran 
silently  down  the  mother's  face.  "You  will  keep  it,  mother  1 " 

This  was  the  last  sigh  after  earthly  things ;  afterwards 
came  on  the  agony,  afterwards  the  Lord  drew  near ;  the 
young  girl  felt  her  heart  beat  with  holy  impatience  to  de 
part;  happiness  overflowed  her;  always  sincere,  she  did 
not  exaggerate  the  strength  of  her  faith ;  but  she  was  in 
haste — her  eyes  shone. 

The  hour  struck — it  was  in  the  night ;  with  a  voice  still 
firm,  looking  at  her  young  friends  gathered  round  her  bed, 
sad  and  aghast :  "  Give  your  hearts  to  Jesus/'  she  said  ; 
then  let  her  head  fall  on  her  mother's  breast.  That  was  all. 

When  the  morning  came,  the  village  awoke.  It  was 
baking  day;  at  dawn  the  oven-tenders  came  to  call  the 
women,  by  tapping  against  the  window  panes ;  the  oxen 
went  heavily  along  to  the  fountains,  the  mowers  betook 
themselves  to  the  meadows,  the  children  to  school ;  the 
larks  singing  deliriously  rose  into  the  light  of  the  beautiful 
sun. 

On  earth  there  was  nothing  changed,  only  a  mother  that 
wept ;  nor  was  anything  changed  in  the  little  room,  only 
a  beautiful  white  crown,  framed  and  glazed,  was  suspended 
on  the  wooden  partition  close  against  the  bed. 


THE  TILERY. 

||T  is  an  outlandish  house,  situated  far  from  any 
visage ;  a  man  and  his  wife  live  there,  young 
people,  quite  alone,  but  for  three  children,  boys. 
This  man  and  his  wife  make  tiles.  Their  dwelling  nes 
tles  at  the  bottom  of  a  little  valley  by  the  side  of  a  brook. 
The  tenants  of  the  tilery — for  it  does  not  belong  to  them— 
have  for  their  solace,  on  their  right,  a  view  of  the  wood 
which  slopes  down  to  the  stream,  very  thick  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  with  oaks  that  emerge  from  the  rest  of  the 
verdure ;  less  dense,  towards  the  low  ground,  single  trees 
standing  out,  and  plenty  of  brambles  between  them.  To 
the  left,  our  good  people,  from  their  deep  hollow,  may  con 
template  at  their  ease  ground  which  rises  in  great  undula 
tions  like  a  natural  park ;  hollowed  here,  swelling  there, 
devoid  of  trees,  up  to  an  old  castellated  dwelling  which 
stands  on  the  highest  of  these  rounded  slopes,  and  looks 
down  at  them  through  its  few  windows.  Beyond,  the  Jura 
cuts  against  the  sky,  with  its  lofty  dome,  black  at  the  base, 
still  clearly  denned,  but  becoming  almost  ethereal  at  its 
summit.  A  little  more  to  the  north,  and  slightly  receding, 
as  if  the  better  to  throw  out  the  sombre  hues  of  the  moun 
tain,  a  wide  amphitheatre  of  rocks  opens  out  in  broad,  bold 
masses,  with  picturesque  yellow  clefts,  and  forms  an  abrupt 
barrier,  crowned  through  its  whole  length  by  an  edge  of 
firs,  standing  out  like  delicate  etchings  against  the  sky. 
You  think  such  a  dwe^ing  as  this  melancholy,  but  it  ia 


THE  TILERY.  49 

not  so ;  retired,  out  of  the  way  it  certainly  is,  but  so  much 
sunshine  smiles  there,  so  many  light-winged  dragon-flies 
dart  to  and  fro  under  the  leaves  that  shade  the  brook ;  so 
many  blue  and  yellow  butterflies  sport  in  the  meadows ;  so 
many  birds  sing  in  the  woods;  you  inhale  such  fresh 
breezes  there,  you  are  so  firmly  planted  in  the  very  heart 
of  nature  as  God  made  it,  that  positively  I  never  go  there 
without  feeling  that  I  would  willingly  remain. 

You  may  reach  the  tiler's  house  either  by  the  valley  or 
by  the  wood.  This  morning  I  take  the  valley,  scarcely 
knowing  why. 

Have  you  any  time  to  lose  ?  I  have  for  my  part.  We 
shall  see  the  valley  by  and  by,  since  that  is  the  way  we  arc 
to  go,  but  we  may  take  our  time,  there  is  no  hurry.  Come 
first  with  me  up  this  steep  path,  and  let  us  walk  a  little 
in  the  wood. 

This  break-neck  path  would  be  the  delight  of  a  painter, 
with  its  red  surface,  ravaged  by  the  rains,  falling  rather 
than  descending  from  the  plains  above,  with  a  bristling 
hedge  on  one  side,  on  the  other  a  green  field.  When  a 
shepherd  with  his  flock  rears  himself  up  there  at  the  top 
in  seeming  gigantic  proportions,  walking  with  crook  on 
shoulder,  while  the  air  is  filled  with  plaintive  bleatings ; 
or  again  when  the  sheep,  spread  out  like  a  white  avalanche, 
with  black  spots,  the  picture  is  complete ;  one  of  those 
exquisite  scenes,  not  taking  much  in,  indeed,  not  aiming 
at  sublimity,  but  presenting  at  a  given  moment  a  few  of 
those  simple  effects,  these  humble,  nay,  trivial  incidents, 
over  which  colour,  accuracy,  and  purity  of  style  throw  an 
ineffable  charm. 

After  the  path  comes  the  plain,  arid  enough,  half  com 
mon,  half  poor  pasture.  The  soil  is  clayey,  the  sun  beats 
down  on  it  fiercely;  there  are  no  bees  flying  about,  no 


5D  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

grasshoppers  jumping  there,  no  juniper  bushes  to  shelter 
the  thrush;  it  is  one  of  those  torrid  zones  which  one 
traverses, -looking  out  for  some  green  to  rest  one's  eyes  on. 
The  valley  which  opens  out  below,  the  one  we  are  going 
to  take  by  and  by,  opportunely  offers  the  silken  show  of 
its  culture  to  our  gaze  :  the  pink  spikes  of  the  sainfoin,  the 
golden  rape,  the  purple  clover,  the  waving  barley,  and 
meanwhile  a  keen  air,  a  north  wind  that  has  been  sifted 
through  the  forest,  passes  through  the  burning  atmosphere, 
and  fans  our  faces. 

Here  first  we  come  upon  the  pines ;  they  grow  in  clus 
ters,  little  grassy  pathways  winding  round  their  stems. 
They  have  sown  themselves  at  various  heights,  and  accord 
ing  as  they  spring  from  the  level  where  we  stand,  or  rear 
themselves  from  the  slope  which  sinks  down  to  the  valley, 
they  reveal  from  root  to  crown  a  deep  intensity  of  green 
which  absorbs  the  sunlight,  or  they  only  shew  their  pointed 
summit  sharply  outlined  on  the  landscape. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  now  hidden,  now  dis 
closed,  you  see  the  cottages  of  the  nearest  village  ranging 
themselves  along  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  with  the  slender 
spire  standing  out  against  the  dark  mass  of  the  Jura ; — you 
might  almost  think  they  leant  up  against  it,  you  would  say 
they  were  a  white  carving  on  a  black  ground, — but  for  the 
transparency  of  the  atmosphere,  but  for  a  certain  aerial 
perspective,  certain  limpid  vapours,  rather  air  rendered 
visible  than  mist,  whicli  surround  them  with  light,  and 
convey  the  impression  of  a  strip  of  unseen  level  ground 
between  the  village  and  the  mountain. 

There  are  hours,  evening  hours,  when  the  sun,  concealed 
behind  the  ridge  of  the  Jura,  darts  such  a  glory  of  rays 
between  its  rounded  shoulder  and  the  rock  battlements ; 
when  such  streams  of  light  pass  through  that  spacious  open- 


THE  TILERY,  51 

ing,  when  the  serrated  outlines  of  the  amphitheatre  are  so 
royally  bright ;  when  that  side  of  the  mountain  which  hides 
the  sun  melts  into  such  solemn  tones,  that  the  soul  remains 
wtillnigh  overpowered  in  presence  of  one  of  the  grander 
spectacles  of  nature. 

But  now  the  sun  is  in  the  east ;  it  is  rising  higher  and 
liigher,  each  tree  casting  a  long  far-spreading  shadow  on 
the  earth. 

The  pines  are  in  flower.  Do  you  know  the  flower  of 
the  pine  1  I  fancy  that  it  was  from  it  that  the  old  gods  of 
Olympus  used  to  extract  the  odorous  resin  with  which  they 
perfumed  their  nectar.  The  pines,  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
lift  up  their  little  wax  candelabras — virgin  granulated  wax. 
Each  branch  bears  its  own ;  it  seems  as  though  the  forest 
\vcre  preparing  some  marvellous  illumination  for  the  fairies, 
and  when  a  puff  of  wind  comes,  and  the  boughs  swing 
slowly,  the  golden  dust  of  the  pollen  floats  around  in  soft 
clouds,  and  sinks  gently  down  upon  the  moss. 

But  we  are  still  walking  on  this  debatable  ground,  which 
has  suddenly  widened  out ;  on  the  clayey  soil  where  grow 
a  few  sparse  cereals  bending  to  the  breeze. 

The  forest,  the  real  forest,  lies  before  us.  Do  you  wish 
for  songs  1  let  us  go  under  the  old  oaks.  Do  you  prefer 
silence,  with  a  vague  stir  in  the  air  1  let  us  keep  below  the 
pines. 

First  of  all  then,  under  the  oaks.  There,  where  the 
grass  grows,  md  brambles  interlace  ;  where  the  sweet-brier 
stops  up  the  way,  and  creeping  plants  abound  ;  there  along 
that  shining  track  where  footsteps  have  trodden  down  the 
vegetation. 

There  it  is  that  you  are  fairly  lost ;  there  that  exhale  all 
round  nameless  perfumes,  fresh  emanations  of  the  earth,  of 
the  old  trunks,  of  the  young  foliage.  The  very  light  is 


52  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

green,  the  shade  all  interpenetrated  with  sun.  Not  a 
breeze,  except  every  now  and  then  indeed  a  mere  puff,  you 
know  not  whence,  which  just  lifts  the  branches,  wafts  here 
and  there  still  sweeter  scents,  then  dies  away,  and  leaves 
you  half  intoxicated  with  perfume. 

What  charming  mysteries  there  are  in  these  nooks ! 
Millions  of  insects,  all  dowered  with  intelligence,  dressed 
for  a  festival,  displaying,  between  the  blades  of  grass,  the 
purple,  the  ebony,  the  ultramarine  of  their  elytra,  their 
armour  of  malachite  and  gold,  delicate  antennas,  and  little 
feathered  crests.  There  are  artizans  among  them,  who 
lead  a  hard  life,  hewing,  sawing  storing  night  and  day. 
There  are  idlers  who  go  to  and  fro,  climb  to  the  top  of  a 
stalk,  look  upon  the  world  below,  move  right  and  left 
without  any  particular  purpose ;  take  things  as  they  find 
them.  There  are  thinkers,  too,  motionless  for  hours  be 
neath  a  sunbeam.  There  are  busybodies  who  fly  in  haste, 
make  sudden  starts,  long  journeys,  and  prompt  returns 
without  very  well  knowing  why.  There  are  musicians 
who,  for  hours  together,  go  on  repeating  their  monotonous 
song.  There  are  swarms  of  ephemera  waving  hither  and 
thither  in  some  brilliant  spot,  neither  too  high  nor  too  low, 
seeking  no  sustenance,  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  life,  light,  and 
harmonious  motion. 

It  is  good  to  be  here.  The  path  glides  under  the  bushes  ; 
flowering  branches  strike  against  your  face.  As  you  advance, 
a  low  cry,  a  rapid  flight,  reveal  to  you  nests  that  your 
hand  sets  gently  rocking  as  you  divide  the  branches  before 
you.  From  every  nook  burat  the  brilliant  notes  of  the 
maestri  of  the  wood.  Redbrsasts,  blackbirds,  chaffinches, 
wrens — all  except  the  nightingale,  who  finds  the  cite  too 
wild ;  except  the  lark,  who  prefers  the  open  sky  of  the 
fields ;  except  the  quail,  who  hides  her  brood  in  the  hay  ; 


THE  TILERY.  53 

' — ati  at  the  top  of  their  voice ;  all  with  throats  proudly 
distended,  sing,  trill,  call !  It  is  a  glorious  fulness  of  har 
mony,  which  affects  you  like  the  vibrations  of  the  sunlight. 

Marvellously  fresh  is  the  song  of  the  blackbird.  In 
spring  infinitely  varied  in  its  tones,  it  gets  shorter  as  the 
summer  advances,  until,  by  the  time  Ms  nestlings  are 
hatched,  he  loses  his  notes  one  after  the  other,  and  remains 
cut  short,  rather  quizzical,  rather  embarrassed,  and  a  good 
deal  amazed  that  he  can  go  no  further.  And  while  the 
blackbird  whistles  at  random  on  the  top  of  a  great  oak-tree, 
the  redbreast,  perched  below  on  some  thick  bush,  throws 
off  a  very  rain  of  diamonds  and  pearls,  scatters  in  the  air 
his  crystalline  notes  all  full  of  light  and  fancy.  Lower 
yet,  beneath  the  brilliant  concertos  and  bravura  songs, 
there  are  murmurs  more  intimate  and  charming  still ;  the 
whispered  talk  of  an  enamoured  pair ;  the  chirping  of  the 
mother  to  her  young  brood.  The  rest  is  a  mere  affair  of 
display ;  here  there  is  soul ;  here  there  are  endless  narra 
tions,  little  cries  of  joy,  sage  counsels,  innocent  surprises  ; 
sometimes,  but  rarely,  bursts  of  anger ;  lovers  who  lose 
themselves  in  ineffable  repetitions  ,  children  who  speak  all 
at  once,  and  little  melodious  beatified  sighs,  as  if  a  bird's 
heart  was  not  large  enough  to  hold  so  much  happiness. 

And  now  we  reach  the  clearing — a  wide  space,  twilight : 
no  more  brushwood,  only  luxuriant  grass ;  here  and  there 
an  old  oak,  with  rugged  trunk  and  strong  knotted  branches. 
A  wide  dome  circles  above  ;  all  round  stands  the  green  wall 
of  the  wood  ;  at  intervals  a  stray  sunbeam  ;  within  it  a  fly 
passing  to  and  fro  ;  absolute  stillness  and  calm.  We  have 
left  the  wood-^ongs  in  the  coppice  ;  the  cuckoo's  plaint 
alone  is  to  be  heard  afar,  from  one  hiding-place  to  another  • 
here  it  comes  to  us  muffled, — does  not  trouble  the  silence. 

A  dead  tree  is  lying  in  the  shade  ;  it  is  cool  here,  let  us 


54  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

seat  ourselves.  Fit  retreat  for  a  philosopher ;  fit  occasion 
for  communing  with  one's-self.  Commend  me  to  these 
green  studios,  these  sylvan  fortresses,  this  deep  isolation. 
What  enterprises  the  soul  enters  on  here  !  what  deeds  are 
planned,  what  mighty  things  are  don^  !  how  the  world  gets 
shaken,  overturned,  made  and  ref^ade  at  one's  will !  If 
you  have  a  fancy  to  be  king,  emperor,  great  Mogul,  or 
only  the  first  poet  of  the  age, — to  be  any  kind  of  genius 
whether  in  music,  painting,  rhyme,  or  reason, — go  and  sen: 
yourself  a  while  on  the  prostrate  trunk  in  the  forest  glade. 
You  will  see  all  the  glories  of  the  world  pass  before  you  ; 
you  will  engage  in  terrible  battles;  you  will  come  in  for  some 
rude  blows ;  nothing  is  to  be  conquered  without  trouble  ; 
but  I  know  not  how  it  comes  to  pass,  you  will  always  be 
the  hero,  always  the  victor.  As  for  me,  inveterate  idler 
that  I  am,  I  think  of  nothing.  There  are  people  who 
dream,  and  know  what  about ;  some  idea  or  other  is  always 
running  in  their  head ;  some  image  moving  before  and  beck 
oning  them  on  ;  for  me,  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  lie  at  full 
length  under  the  brandies,  I  inhale  the  aroma,  I  look  at 
the  lacework  of  trees  against  the  sky ;  I  admire  the  mys 
terious  harmony  of  green  with  blue ;  I  rise  as  high  as  I 
can  into  the  infinite  azure  depths ;  I  feel  that  existence  is 
sweet;  my  soul  floats  suspended  in  ether;  I  am  neither 
asleep  nor  awake,  only  it  seems  to,  me  that  I  have  some 
comprehension  of  the  immensity  of  God. 

Oh,  liberty,  liberty  !  to  live  the  healthy  life  of  the  woods ; 
to  encamp  in  the  forests  like  those  gipsies  who  luu 
that  red  rag  hanging  on  that  shoot  of  sweet-brier ;  to  see 
the  sun  rise  between  the  leaves ;  to  see  the  moon  man  h 
on  through  the  oak-trees ;  to  come  in  for  the  dew  of  morn 
ing  ;  to  wander  without  hindrances ;  to  be  satisfied  with 
tittle  !  There  is  so  much  hard  work  in  our  stone  houses, 


THE  TILERY.  5o 

BO  heavy  a  load  of  care,  so  many  difficulties  in  moving  a 
finger,  so  much  bondage  to  custom,  such  crooked  artificial 
natures,  so  little  aptness  for  true  enjoyment ;  and  here,  two 
steps  off,  is  absolute  independence,  self-possession,  free  mo 
tion,  existence  such  as  God  created  it  in  Eden  ! 

Nay,  we  are  no  longer  in  Eden  :  we  are  in  a  land  of 
pilgrimage  ;  a  land  of  toil,  with  great  clods  to  break,  hol 
lows  to  fill  up,  fallow  ground  to  till ;  by  and  by  will  come 
the  rest  of  evening.  No,  we  are  no  longer  in  Eden ;  these 
traces  of  the  axe  in  the  forest  glade  tell  it  me  too  plainly. 

My  tall,  beautiful  oaks  !  Have  not  they  been  cut  over, 
laid  low  on  the  ground,  with  all  their  foliage,  in  the  glory 
of  their  summer  !  Have  they  not  had  glaring  spaces,  awk 
ward  gaps  made  in  them ;  have  not  their  secret  retreats 
been  profaned,  the  mysterious  hiding-places  of  the  squirrel 
laid  bare  !  When  I  see  these  mutilated  trunks,  this  red 
dened  wood  from  which  the  sap  is  flowing;  when  I  see 
the  glade  gain  upon  the  wood,  the  pasture  on  the  glade, 
the  arable  land  on  the  pasture,  I  say  to  myself,  that  the 
time  is  coming,  is  at  hand,  when,  in  our  country,  you  will 
seek  for  the  forest  in  vain. 

Despoiled  of  their  woods,  of  their  fruit-trees  even — for 
everything  is  turned  into  money — will  our  valleys  and 
hills,  bare  as  my  hand,  lit  up  by  one  same  sun,  washed  by 
one  same  rain,  swept  by  one  same  wind,  be  more  beautiful, 
be  worth  more  ?  Let  wise  heads  determine ;  but  for  my 
part,  I  have  great  confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  God.  No 
rills  without  woods,  no  birds  without  branches,  no  music 
without  birds.  I  do  not  speak  of  our  harvest  devoured  by 
insects.  But  is  it  nothing  to  have  beauty,  grace,  melody 
everywhere  ?  What  sort  of  a  race  will  remain  to  you  when 
you  have  weaned  it  from  poetry?  People  will  go  on 
working,  eating,  drinking,  saving  money,  it  is  true ;  but 


56  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

no  more  noon-day  rest  beneath  the  walnut-tree,  no  more 
hawthorn  wreaths  snatched  in  passing,  no  more  walks  in 
the  wood  on  Sunday  evenings,  no  more  strawberries  gathered 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  in  those  green  nooks,  shut  in 
by  pines;  the  moon  in  rising  will  shine  no  more  through 
the  tall  pear-trees,  no  more  lily  of  the  valley  will  be 
gathered  in  great  handfuls  to  perfume  the  little  cottage  - 
room  all  the  week  through. 

Does  man  live  by  bread  alone  ?  Jesus  has  said  that  he 
does  not,  that  he  has  need  of  the  Word  of  God  as  well. 
With  the  exception  of  the  one  Book,  written  by  His 
supreme  hand,  I  know  few  of  such  sovereign  power;  I 
know  few  words  as  penetrating,  few  that  so  effectively 
touch  the  heart,  as  do  the  simple  influences  of  a  nature 
untouched  by  our  hand. 

As  for  me,  these  words  contain  a  large  part  of  my  life. 
As  a  child  I  followed  the  steps,  now,  alas !  effaced,  of  a 
grandfather,  a  mother,  and  many  others.  These  dusky 
avenues  have  heard  many  a  cry  of  joy  ;  many  a  fine  story, 
lasting  as  long  as  we  were  in  the  forest,  has  unfolded  itself 
along  these  winding  paths.  What  fun  it  was  when  all  the 
party  chanced  boldly  to  plunge  into  a  swamp  !  What  de 
light  when,  the  great  drops  of  rain  falling  one  by  one,  we 
took  refuge  under  the  shelter  of  the  oaks ;  the  earth  exhal 
ing  its  healthy  perfume ;  every  opening  in  the  leaves 
becoming  a  gutter,  then  the  brandies  bending,  then  the 
shower  turning  into  a  cataract ;  we  were  wet  through,  we 
were,  oh,  how  happy  ! 

The  forest  is  still  the  same.  In  the  spring  the  bee- 
orchis  displays  her  velvet  robe  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
pines ;  in  the  summer,  the  pink,  with  slashed  petals  of 
gray  hue,  balances  itself  at  the  end  of  a  slender  stalk — 
singular  flower  whence  exhales  a  perfume  that  makes  the 


THE  TILERY.  57 

very  heart  faint.  The  shade  is  the  same,  the  freshness 
great  as  ever, — that  rarefied  freshness  through  which  floats, 
a  passing  aroma  that  soon  dies  away  again,  like  those  wan 
dering  notes  that  rise  in  wide  expanses  of  country,  then 
suddenly  lose  themselves  without  one's  knowing  whence 
they  rose  or  where  they  died  away. 

Nothing  has  changed ;  only  I  have  been  going  on.  B  j 
it  so ;  this  immutable  aspect  of  nature,  the  perennial  chf.r- 
acter  of  seasons,  flowers,  birds'  nests,  I  like  it ;  it  does  me 
good.  But  some  are  soured  by  it,  find  in  it  almost  an 
insult  to  our  sorrows.  It  is  no  more  so  than  the  equable 
azure  of  the  sky,  the  star-lamps  kindled  every  night.  It 
is  the  eternity  of  God's  goodness,  the  eternity  of  youth ; 
the  eternal  ideal  affixed  by  the  Lord's  hand  on  creation's 
brow.  And  then  are  there  not  children,  even  while  we  are 
young ;  young  lives  while  ours  are  declining ;  strong  men 
rising  round  when  wre  have  to  die  1  Is  it  not  well  that 
they  should  inhale  the  same  flowers,  rejoice  in  the  same 
sunshine,  quench  their  thirst  at  the  same  fountains  ? 

This  is  why  these  blows  of  the  axe  upon  the  oaks  resound 
so  in  my  heart. 

Let  us  return  by  the  path  under  the  pines. 

Every  soil  makes  its  own  tree,  every  tree  makes  its  own 
fauna  and  flora,  and,  by  a  wonderful  reaction,  its  own  soil 
too.  Here  the  ground  is  swept  clean;  brown,  smooth, 
covered  with  dry,  needle-like  leaves ;  it  is  all  that  a  brier 
can  do  to  grow  in  open  spaces.  The  stems  rise  tall  aud 
slender,  armed  at  their  base  with  small  sharp  branches ; 
higher  up,  with  bristling  tufts,  proudly  indenting  the  sky. 
The  air  plays  freely  round  ;  no  deep  shade,  only  the  light 
is  softened  as  it  strains  through.  Sometimes  a  single  pink, 
Lost  in  the  grass,  sends  out  a  transient  emanation  on  the 
breeze.  The  roots  of  the  pines,  clothed  with  bark  like  tho 


58  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

branches,  intersect  the  path  like  irregular  flights  of  steps. 
The  walk,  I  know  not  why — is  it  the  confirmation  of  the 
soil,  or  have  the  pines  something  to  do  with  it? — has 
assumed  a  mountain  character.  The  breeze  is  keener  ;  the 
spirits  grow  more  elastic.  Behind  the  colonnade  of  trees 
you  see  the  country  spread  out  in  different  levels;  now 
hollowed  into  wide  valleys,  now  rising  into  plateaus,  as  far 
as  the  Alps.  At  the  bottom,  through  the  fields,  the  high 
road  divides  the  district  by  a  line  that  shines  in  the  sun. 
It  runs  straight,  then  branches  into  rays,  with  thin  threads, 
that  lose  themselves  at  the  horizon.  Far  away,  the  Alps 
rear  their  frozen  ramparts  :  the  thick  wood  hides  the  Jura. 
You  only  hear  the  cry  of  the  labourers,  who,  the  moment 
the  hay  is  got  in,  break  up  the  ground  to  prepare  it  for 
autumn,  their  loud  voices  spreading  over  the  plain ;  grating, 
mournful,  like  the  voices  of  men  who  lead  a  hard  life. 
They  reach  the  pines,  and  break  against  them  into  a  soft 
ened  tremulous  sound.  Sometimes  the  bells  of  some  small 
vehicle  trotting  along  the  road  scatter  little  sparks  of  sound, 
that  mingle  with  the  trills  of  the  cricket  in  the  clover, — • 
that  is  all.  Above  the  forest  you  may  see  some  night  bird 
flying  heavily  along,  escorted  by  all  the  winged  hosts  of 
the  wood.  Then  what  an  outburst  there  is  of  hooting  and 
screams  of  derision,  till  he  is  conducted  into  another  can 
ton  !  At  your  feet  a  travelling  snail  or  adventurous  cricket 
crosses  the  path,  on  his  way  to  visit  his  relations  in  the 
fields. 

It  is  not  yet  the  season  of  grasshoppers.  Later,  they 
\\  ill  leap  in  thousands  wherever  your  foot  treads,  green  as 
n  July  apple,  or  gray  and  earth-coloured,  or  brown  with 
scarlet-lined  wings  ;  with  their  lively  expression,  their  goat- 
like  profile,  and  their  prominent  eyes,  they  will  ohiri)  away 
in  the  newly-cut  grass. 


THE  TILERY.  59 

Ebr  is  it  the  time  of  fungi  either ;  those  grotesque  crea 
tions  which  dot  the  wood  with  their  vivid  colours  as  soon 
as  October  has  deflowered  the  glades.  They  are  a  singular 
race,  and  full  of  mystery.  There  are  good  and  bad  among 
them.  I  am  not  speaking  of  their  poisonous  properties, 
but  of  their  outward  shape  and  bearing.  Some  are  deli 
cate,  milk-white,  planted  in  circles,  as  if  to  mark  the  spot 
where  fairies  danced  last  night.  Others  are  solitary, 
blackish,  livid,  treacherous-looking;  planning  some  crime 
apart.  Those  purple,  lined  with  orange,  display  their 
magnificent  attire  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  gray  knobs, 
that  stand  round  at  respectful  distances ;  pachas  in  their 
harems !  These,  bright  as  silver,  smooth  as  silk,  a  satin 
dome  above,  ivory  gills  below.  There  are  some  rainbow- 
coloured,  some  of  pale  gold.  Whence  do  they  come ; 
whither  do  they  go  !  When  the  mists  of  autumn  hung 
heavy  on  the  earth,  what  sun  purpled  them,  painted  them 
sulphur-coloured,  gave  them  their  mother-of-pearl  irides 
cence  ?  Why  does  the  cow  who  browses  the  latest  plants, 
and  munches  up  the  frost-bitten  leaves ;  why  does  the 
sheep  wandering  under  the  bare  oak-trees,  leave  these  un 
touched  ?  I  do  not  know  why. 

But  the  mid-day  heat  scorches  the  country ;  it  is  getting 
late,  let  us  go  down  to  the  valley,  for  it  is  there,  indeed, 
that  our  way  lies,  as  you  already  know. 

Here  we  are  by  the  brook.  We  enter  the  intense  shade 
cast  by  rocks,  all  clothed  with  wild  cherry-trees,  mountain 
ash,  maples,  and  hazels.  The  flowering  bramble  hooks 
itself  on  to  everything ;  the  brook  runs  on  beneath  the 
willows  between  lichen-covered  stones.  Down  there  it  is 
almost  dark ;  a  beautiful  gloom  surrounded  by  light. 
Sometimes  the  king-fisher  skims  the  water  with  his  wing ; 
follows  its  course  like  a  flash  of  blue  lightning,  ;oo  quick 


60  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

for  the  eye.  An  old  pollard  bends  its  stem  across.  Out 
of  the  middle  of  its  crown  shoots  the  young  cherry-tree, 
sowed  there  last  year  by  the  hands  of  some  child  at  play. 
The  brook  leaves  the  shade,  crosses  the  road,  widens  in  the 
sunshine.  It  is  here  that  the  young  haymakers  bathe  their 
bare  feet.  Next  it  sets  off  running  through  the  meadows, 
sometimes  in  sight,  sometimes  concealed  beneath  arcades  of 
bushes. 

There  is  no  road  through  the  valley,  merely  a  track. 
On  both  sides  are  steep  rocks,  to  the  left  clothed  with 
Drushwood,  to  the  right  with  old  oak-trees,  flinging  down 
festoons  of  wild  vine,  and  balmy  clematis.  Then  the  rocks 
disappear,  and  the  valley  throughout  its  length  is  enclosed 
by  the  wood  on  the  east,  by  the  green  rising  ground  to  the 
west,  with  the  Jura  and  the  rocky  amphitheatre  closing  in 
the  horizon. 

I  do  not  know  any  retreat  richer  in  flowers  than  this. 

Not  a  breath  of  air.  The  sun  darts  fiercely  down,  but 
the  grass  keeps  green,  the  murmur  of  the  water,  its  fresh 
gurgle,  its  limpid  whispers  seem  to  spread  moisture  round. 
No  seed  is  brought  here  by  the  hand  of  man ;  the  birds, 
the  wind,  when  it  chances  to  pass  by,  are  the  only 
sowers. 

There  are  successive  flower-shows  here,  and  each  has 
its  own  one  plant.  Blue  salvias ;  columbines,  with  their 
lovely  hanging  bells,  that  tremble  every  time  a  butterfly 
touches  them  in  his  flight ;  a  profusion  of  yellow  coronella, 
then  small  red  starry  pinks ;  and  near  the  brook,  the  white 
feathery  fragrant  tufts  of  the  meadow-sweet,  with  some 
green  insect  slumbering  in  their  midst. 

As  soon  as  a  ciaster  of  alders  bends  over  the  water,  the 
honey-suckle  throws  its  night-scented  tufts  from  stem  to 
stem.  Then  beneath,  you  find  secret  bathing-places ;  little 


THE  TILERY.  61 

shady  bays,  where  the  current  hardly  stirs  the  leaf  that 
hangs  lowest. 

Here  at  noon  come  the  village  youths,  here  cries  of 
joy  are  heard,  here  the  water  is  thrown  up  in  fountains, 
falls  in  sheets,  and  dripping  feet  soak  the  meadow-grass. 

But  at  this  present  hour  there  is  perfect  silence;  the 
silence  of  mid-day  in  June.  Only,  beneath  some  wild  pear- 
tree,  you  may  see  the  mowers  stretched  at  full  length,  their 
straw-hats  over  their  faces,  or  their  faces  buried  in  the 
grass. 

Onward.  The  fleece  of  the  hemp  is  swelling,  it  is  ex 
quisitely  sweet.  The  old  bridge  throws  its  arch  from  side 
to  side ;  one  stone  has  detached  itself,  perhaps  thirty  years 
ago;  a  willow  grows  on  it,  it  lies  in  the  water,  rnoss-covered, 
like  an  emerald  in  the  sun.  I  fall  into  a  dream,  the  stone 
changes  to  an  island,  the  sprigs  of  moss  are  palm-trees ;  I 
land — I  am  in  the  East !  .  .  . 

Onward  still.  The  ground  is  wilder,  has  fewer  flower? 
Reeds  rattle ;  the  valley  narrows,  the  swampy  soil  shaken 
beneath  one's  feet.  This  portion  of  the  forest,  only  half 
cleared,  still  amazed  at  the  broad  daylight,  exposes  its 
stumps  to  the  sun.  It  is  covered  with  tall,  large-leaved 
plants.  The  brook  glides  over  a  clay  bottom,  grows  wider, 
has  no  more  sheltered  creeks.  A  sudden  turn,  here  is  the 
tilery  seated  in  its  solitude. 

It  consists  of  little  more  than  a  shed,  beneath  which  dry 
the  tiles,  a  bit  of  a  house  opposite,  under  the  same  roof, — 
a  low  window,  a  door  with  a  porch — and  in  front  a  bare 
garden,  where  grow  some  cabbage-stalks  and  some  rows  of 
kidney  beans. 

Not  a  creature  about,  the  children  have  run  away  at  our 
approach.  No  poultry ;  the  small  farmers,  to  whom  the 
neighbouring  fields  belong,  would  not  suffer  them.  No  cow ; 


62  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

there  is  no  hay  for  one.  In  the  stable  there  is  a  goat,  for 
which  the  boys  go  at  nightfall  to  gather  young  shoots  in 
the  wood  ;  there  is  an  old  horse,  too,  half  blind,  half  lame, 
who  gets  harnessed  to  the  old  cart,  and  carries  the  tiles  to 
the  customers. 

We  will  enter  the  kitchen ;  .the  floor  is  earthen ;  not 
much  to  be  seen  in  it,  just  enough  to  prove  most  decided 
poverty.  A  few  plates  in  the  rack,  a  few  iron  spoons  and 
prongless  forks,  a  dinged  saucepan,  on  the  hearth  nothing 
but  a  broken  trivet.  No  flitches  of  bacon,  no  wreaths  of 
sausages  hung  in  the  chimney ;  only  a  string  of  onions, 
and  on  the  table  an  earthen  tureen,  where  smokes  some 
thin  soup  or  other,  and  three  pieces  of  black  bread  neatly 
cut.  Yet  everything  is  clean  :  the  rush  broom  has  been  all 
round;  the  bareness  is  orderly,  is  not  pitiable.  Where 
destitution  has  got  the  upper  hand,  things  are  not  so  well 
arranged. 

At  the  sound  we  make,  the  bed-room  door  opens  gently, 
a  man  comes  out — a  puny  figure,  timid-looking,  with  a 
moist,  kind  eye,  a  rather  slow,  quiet  manner,  and  a  happy 
expression. 

"  Well,  James/' 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  We  sent  for  you.  She 
lias  been  dreadfully  ill ;  just  now  things  are  better." 

"And  the  child'?" 

"  Oh  ! "  and  James  gave  a  simple  kind  of  laugh  ;  "  the 
child  !  It  will  be  like  the  others." 

At  that  moment  three  chubby  faces, — three  curly  heads, 
little  rogues  half  undressed,  furtively  advance  to  the  outside 
of  the  window,  and  look  through  at  the  tureen.  " 

"Those?"  James  nods  his  head.  "Very  well,  James, 
cat  your  soup;  I  have  something  to  do  here;  you  will 
come  in  by  and  by." 


THE  TILERY.  63 

James  is  not  in  the  habit  of  disputing,  he  stands  still  a 
moment,  and  beckons  to  the  boys,  who  come  in  just  as  we 
pass  into  the  next  room.  It  is  the  bed-room,  there  is  no 
other ;  bare  as  the  kitchen ;  barer  if  possible ;  only  it  is 
very  clean,  very  bright,  and  it  has  a  boarded  floor.  Just 
at  this  moment,  however,  the  light  is  a  little  obscured. 
James  has  hung  up  some  old  aprons  in  the  windows.  The 
red-curtained  bed  leans  up  against  the  wall ;  a  walnut-wood 
cupboard,  the  family  wardrobe,  stands  opposite ;  by  the 
two  windows  are  two  chairs ;  no  table ;  and  that  is  all. 

In  the  bed  lie  mother  and  child ;  she,  as  robust  as  her 
husband  is  weakly,  with  an  eye  as  bright  as  his  is  subdued. 
A  strong  nature,  with  a  wild  light  in  her  glance,  something 
about  her  unusual,  outlandish,  like  her  house. 

"  This  is  how  you  behave,  Jane  1  On  the  very  point  of 
death  without  letting  people  know  ! " 

Jane  lifted,  herself  up  with  an  abrupt  gesture. 

"  It  ;s  like  that  always,  but  this  time  I  thought  the  end 
was  come."  • 

Her  voice  was  firm,  her  accent  decided ;  it  was  only  the 
trembling  of  her  arm  that  betrayed  her  weakness. 

"  Why  not  get  help  1 " 

"  Oh,  if  one  got  into  the  habit  of  it !" 

"You  have  suffered  a  great  deal ?;>  Jane  looked  at  me, 
the  flash  in  her  eye  was  her  only  answer.  "And  now  1 " 

"  I  shall  get  well." 

This  woman  will  not  die ;  each  lying-in  is  torture,  she 
goes  through  it ;  she  measures  herself  with  death,  wrestles, 
shakes  off  his  clasp,  arid  eight  days  after  you  see  her  driv 
ing  the  old  horse,  who  draws  the  old  cart  with  the  tiles. 

James  moulds  the  clay,  and  bakes  these  tiles.  Jane 
takes  them  to  the  houses  around ;  he  remains  quietly  at 
home,  she  scours  the  valley ;  but  she  is  never  long  away. 


64  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

Jane  is  no  talker,  she  walks  on  in  silence  by  the  side  of 
her  cart,  her  eye  always  a  little  wild,  then  she  returns  to 
her  nest.  When  there  are  no  orders,  weeks  pass  away 
without  either  of  them  being  seen. 

"  You  did  not  forget  God,  Jane  ?ff 

"No."  ' 

Why  should  I  repeat  what  passed-  in  confidence  between 
us?  Jane's  secrets,  vhat  she  believes,  what  she  hopes, 
what  her  soul  holds  within  itself,  belongs  to  her  only. 
Besides,  she  says  little.  James  came  in ;  his  look,  when 
it  rested  on  his  wife,  had  a  tenderness  about  it  which 
stirred  my  heart.  She  turned,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"  He  is  a  good  man,"  said  she,  and  I  saw  a  tear  gather 
tinder  her  eyelids. 

"  One  does  as  well  as  one  can,"  said  James. 

"  You  are  lonely,"  I  broke  in,  "  so  far  from  the  village." 

Both  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  of  astonishment. 

"You  are  not  dull?"  Jane  laughed,  her  white  teeth 
lighting  her  face  up.  "  If  your  pains  wert)  ever  to  get 
worse?" 

"  One  has  the  doctor,"  replied  the  husband ;  it  only  takeg 
about  two  hours  to  go  for  him." 

"  And  two  more  to  bring  him  back,  which  makes  four. 
In  that  time  Jane  might  sink." 

"  God  will  see  to  that,"  said  Jane. 

"  And  your  children  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  fear  for  them  ! " 

"  Does  not  the  day  seem  long  to  you  ? " 

"  No,"  said  they,  both  at  once.     Then  James  went  on — 

"  Look  you,  ma'am,  we  do  very  well.  I  have  my  tiles  ; 
she  has  her  horse,  her  garden,  and  her  spinning-wheel,  and 
then  there  are  the  children.  When  winter  comes,  one  reads 
H,  bit  in  the  evenings  ;  one  takes  a  spell  in  the  Bible,  and 


TILERY.  65 

one  goes  to  bed  early.  Then  there  is  the  wood  ;  in  spring 
there  is  plenty  of  singing  there.  People  are  no  good  to 
us.  They  are  such  talkers  in  the  villages,  and  so  proud, 
too.  We  are  but  poor,  and  they  would  look  down  upon  us 
belike.  Though  as  for  that,  the  year  goes  round,  and  we 
get  on  very  well  somehow." 

Jane  said  nothing,  but  in  her  black  eye  you  saw  a  light 
that  was  kindled  by  something  more  than  her  husband's 
negative  happiness. 

For  him,  fireside  peace,  silence,  one  day  like  another, 
with  affection,  sufficed.  She  loved  too.  somewhat  indeed 
after  the  fashion  of  a  wild  animal,  but  she  did  love.  She 
would  not  on  any  account  have  had  a  James  of  a  different 
stamp,  less  gentle,  less  careful,  less  quiet.  And  yet,  for 
her,  this  solitude  included  something  over  and  above  do 
mestic  happiness.  Whether  she  distinctly  understood  this 
or  not,  I  cannot  say;  but  she  felt  it. 

Here  she  breathed  fresh  free  air,  that  wild  poetry  which 
passes  through  the  forests  on  the  wings  of  the  morning 
wind ;  here  she  lived  far  away  from  the  prose  of  frequented 
spots;  the  jokes,  the  grievances,  the  gossip  of  the  village 
never  jarred  her.  When  she  walked  along  by  the  old  cart, 
find  heard  the  grinding  of  its  old  wheels,  there  was  an  un 
conscious  music  within  her  heart  that  cheered  her  on.  The 
notes  of  birds  singing  in  the  woods,  the  sound  of  distant 
bells,  the  merry  voices  of  her  children  echoing  softly  from 
afar ;  the  sweet  scent  of  the  meadows ;  the  keen  breath  of 
dawn  ;  the  warm  breeze  of  overling ;  the  mountain,  whe 
ther  in  gloom  or  radiance  ;  the  changeless  blue  of  the  sky, 
with  its  swift  battalions  of  clouds ; — all  these  went  to 
swell  that  music  of  which  we  speak.  And  at  night  when 
she  pressed  her  little  nestlings  close ;  when  the  dead 
branches  flamed  brightly  on  the  hearth,  lighting  up  the 


66  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

face  of  James  as  lie  looked  at  her  with  that  innocent  ex 
pression  of  his,  Jane's  heart  glowed  within  her.  Melted 
into  tenderness,  proud,  and  passionately  happy,  she  would 
not  have  changed  her  lot  with  that  of  the  Queen  of  Eng 
land,  seated  crown  on  head  on  a  throne  of  gold 


THE  HEGELIAN, 

night  in  the  month  of  May,  but  not  therefore 
a  beautiful  night — for  it  rained  in  torrents-  -I 
was  travelling  in  a  diligence.  It  was  in  the 
year  1849,  and  there  were  then  no  railroads  in  Switzer 
land.  The  diligence,  a  great  house  on  wheels,  with  its 
two  coupes,  an  interior,  a  rotonde,  cabriolet  on  the  roof, 
seats  here,  seats  there,  rolled  along,  collecting  everything 
and  everybody,  and,  in  its  winding,  iwer-like  course,  might 
be  said,  in  geographical  phrase,  to  drain  the  country  be 
tween  Neufchatel  and  Bale,  at  which  last  place  it  arrived 
on  the  second  night. 

It  rained,  I  have  said,  in  torrents.  There  was  no  place 
in  either  of  the  coupes.  The  cabriolet  was  out  of  tLe 
question.  I  had  an  aged  relative  with  me,  the  Baroness  Z., 
whom  I  was  accompanying  into  Germany.  W«  squeezed 
ourselves  into  the  interior. 

Nothing  could  be  clearly  seen.  The  rain  was  lashing 
the  glasses;  the  leathern  roof  leaked;  we  could  hardly 
distinguish  our  companions.  I  had  upon  my  feet  the 
great  feet  of  a  great  burgomaster  of  those  parts,  with  pro 
tuberant  stomach  built  up  to  threefold  elevation,  an  1 
pendent  chin  of  fit  proportions  hanging  down  to  meet  it. 
He  took  all  tilings  calmly,  and  with  deep  bass  voice, 
chuckled  whenever  a  drop  of  rain  from  the  leaking  roof 
fell  upon  him.  By  his  side  sat  some  description  of  Ameri 
can,  not  much  the  gentleman.  From  time  to  time  he 


68  THE  NEAP,  HORIZONS. 

drew  from  his  pocket  a  long  bottle,  (of  gin,  porter,  br. 
I  know  not — some  alcoholic  liquor,)  and  applied  it  to  his 
lips ;  when  he  did  not  drink,  he  smoked.  To  the  right 
and  left  were  peasants  and  citizens  lost  in  the  shade  : 
these  came  and  went.  The  burgomaster  was  immovable  ; 
so,  too,  was  the  American.  In  one  corner  a  man  of  lofty 
stature,  and  young,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  sat  silent. 

Infernal  machines  were  those  old  travelling  arks,  where 
space  and  air  were  both  denied  to  you  ;  where  your  elbows 
were  driven  into  your  sides ;  where  your  legs  were  wedged 
fast  amidst  innumerable  packages  ;  where  to  draw  a  pocket 
handkerchief  from  your  pocket  was  an  affair  tedious  as 
diplomacy,  and  a  great  deal  more  laborious ;  where,  during 
twenty-four  hours,  you  had  the  face  of  your  opposite 
neighbour,  with  its  inevitably  besotted,  bewildered  expres 
sion,  jogging  there  ceaselessly  before  your  eyes  with  the 
;5ame  idiotic  movement.  Infernal  machines  !  for  he  must 
be  good  indeed  who  does  not  begin  to  feel  very  wicked  in 
one  of  them. 

The  rain  poured  on  incessantly.  Impossible  to  open 
anything.  The  moisture  from  within  tarnished  the  glasses ; 
the  mud  from  without  splashed  them.  There  was  a  sick 
ening  odour  of  stale  wine,  stale  tobacco,  old  cheese,  and 
old  crusts ;  and  there  you  sat  amidst  the  snoring  and  the 
swaying  to  and  fro  of  heads  with  great  open  moutns, 
which  at  some  sharper  jolt  than  isual,  would  suddenly 
shut  themselves  up.  and  than,  it  AVOS  tbfc  turn  of  the  eyes  to 
open  on  you  with  their  imbecile  stare.  We  had  neither 
thunder  nor  lightning ;  nothing  but  this  incessant  deluge. 
Looking  out,  one  could  just  distinguish  the  roofs  of  houses 
dripping  with  rain,  and  the  flooded  road  that  spirted  up 
under  our  wheels,  and  the  great  pools  of  water  formed  in 
the  meadows.  Thick  clouds  were  drawn  around  us  on 


THE  HEGELIAN.  69 

every  side,  which  added  to  the  oppression  of  our  atmo 
sphere  ;  and  yet  the  cold — the  cold  of  a  sleepless  night,  the 
cold  of  the  drenched  earth  and  the  pouring  skies,  and  a 
carriage  soaked  with  rain — penetrated  the  very  bones,  and 
made  one  shrink  into  one's-self. 

The  epoch  we  were  in — it  was  1849 — was  as  cheerless 
as  the  scene  which  nature  presented. 

In  France,  Socialism  was  rising  into  power ;  in  Germany, 
whither  we  were  travelling,  revolutions  had  taken  place,  or 
were  hourly  expected.  My  aged  companion  and  relative 
was  in  great  fear.  I  endeavoured  to  reassure  her  j  but 
to  me  also  everything  looked  black  as  night.  I  saw, 
through  those  gloomy  showers,  nothing  but  rising  scaffolds ; 
revolutionary  scaffolds  stood  out  upon  my  horizon  in  every 
direction. 

At  length  the  morning  came — not  with  her  scarf  of 
gold,  nor  with  roseate  fingers ,  came  in  very  simple  robes 
— gray  upon  darker  gray. 

Pale  as  it  was,  the  day  had  dawned.  And  see  the 
power  of  light !  In  a  moment  the  whole  world  changed 
its  aspect.  Order  was  triumphant  everywhere,  and,  after 
all,  a  little  conflict  did  no  ill.  And  then  it  was  the  month 
of  May,  and  this  shower  was  falling  upon  the  roofs  of  plea 
sant  cottages — thatched  roofs,  where  wild  flowers  grow, 
and  which  project  kindly  over  the  wall,  securing  a  sheltered 
space  round  the  house.  The  velvet  moss,  which  had  taken 
a  new  lustre  from  the  rain,  enlivened  even  the  dripping 
thatch ;  the  cottage  windows,  with  their  little  round  panes 
of  glass  imbedded  in  the  leadwork,  glistened  out  on  us. 
These  windows  almost  touched  each  other,  and  opened 
upon  the  well -stacked  pile  of  logs.  Moving  in  and  out  of 
the  oval  porch  of  carved  wood,  you  saw  the  mistress  and 
manager  of  all,  her  head  covered  with  a  scarlet  handker- 


70  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

chief.  Tho  ducks  and  the  geese  quack  around  her  with 
ceaseless  movement  of  their  tails.  Further  on,  one  sees 
the  peasant  himself,  yawning  and  stretching  himself  before 
the  barn-door.  Even  our  enemy,  the  rain,  seems  to  re 
bound  gaily,  and  to  dance  upon  the  clean  flag-stones  which 
surround  these  pleasant  homesteads.  In  the  garden  it 
falls  on  great  globes  of  apple-blossoms  and  the  gay  cones  of 
the  lilac,  and  impresses  on  them  an  undulating  and  grace 
ful  movement.  The  tulips,  proud  as  sultanas,  quite  uncon 
cernedly  let  it  glide  down  their  gorgeous  array;  other 
flowers,  with  their  petals  thrown  back,  laugh  as  they  shake 
off  the  petulant  shower;  the  stocks  and  the  wallflower 
embalm  the  air  at  every  gust  of  wind. 

Under  the  roofs  the  swallows  sit  motionless,  with  neck 
outstretched,  upon  their  nests;  or  sometimes  hazard  a 
rapid  zig-zag  flight,  skimming  the  soil,  and,  returning, 
perch  upon  their  nests,  and  there,  with  tail  close  pi 
against  the  wall,  chat  with  their  little  ones,  or  fill  their 
open  beaks.  The  sparrows — more  audacious,  great  thieves 
and  great  brawlers,  red  republicans  underneath  their  brown 
feathers — laugh  at  all  these  cataracts  of  rain.  They,  perched 
upon  the  tiles — they  choose  always  the  best  houses — let 
the  rain  rain,  and  wrangle  on  :  with  strong  beak  and 
raised  head,  eating  of  everything,  and  eating  always,  and 
stunning  the  neighbourhood  with  their  cries. 

And  yonder  the  pigeons  coo.  They  put  out  their  slender 
heads  from  the  holes  of  the  dovecot ;  then,  with  great  noise 
of  wing,  they  pounce  down  on  some  clean  space  in  the 
court  below,  where,  promenading  with  their  little,  timid, 
rapid  steps,  they  peck  here  and  there  at  some  grains 
escaped  from  the  sheaf,  their  necks  changing  like  the  opal 
us  they  move,  and  in  a  moment,  scared  at  nothing,  take 
r.l'.'kt  again  in  a  body. 


THE  HEGELIAN.  71 

But  more  than  all,  the  orchards  shine  out  as  we  pass 
fchem,  in  spite  of  the  pale  day,  and  the  dissolving  clouds, 
and  the  moistened  earth.  Through  it  all  the  apple-trees 
and  the  pear-trees,  in  the  magnificence  of  their  blossom, 
shed  a  ray  as  of  victory.  The  mind,  at  mere  sight  of  them, 
fills  with  Lope.  Revolutions  ! — with  those  globes  of  roseate 
blossoms  ?  Scaffolds ! — in  a  land  where  men  can  wander 
under  such  coverts,  amidst  such  splendour  of  the  spring  ? 

I  know  not  why,  unless  it  was  to  catch  some  sympathy 
for  my  own  thoughts,  that  my  glance  now  turned  from  the 
orchard  to  the  interior  of  the  diligence,  which  still  went 
lumbering  on.  It  did  not  penetrate  to  the  American,  for 
he  was  walled  up  in  his  cloud  of  smoke  ;  it  glided  past  the 
burgomaster,  stolid  and  imperturbable,  and  passing  over 
sundry  sleeping  heads,  rested  in  the  corner  on  the  youthful 
figure  that  I  had  hitherto  rather  divined  than  seen. 

All  night  that  figure  had  remained  there  enveloped  in 
shade.  It  had  not  slept.  From  hour  to  hour  a  clear  voice, 
resonant  and  firm,  had  been  raised  to  ask  of  some  one  on 
the  roof,  or  in  the  rotonde,  or  elsewhere,  if  all  went  well 
with  them.  The  voice  had  been  answered  in  the  frank  tone 
of  the  good  comrade,  yet  with  something  too  of  respect. 
Strange  !  that  figure,  motionless  and  pensive,  and  which 
was  not  regarding  me,  destroyed  in  an  instant  the  peaceful 
train  of  ideas  I  brought  to  it  for  sympathy  ! 

He  was  a  young  man,  hardly  thirty  ;  the  forehead  high, 
the  face  pale,  the  eyes  very  large,  blue,  and  soft ;  he  had 
an  air  of  thought,  of  candour,  of  determination,  as  if  pos 
sessed  by  some  fixed  resolution.  His  mouth  had  a  smile 
upon  it ;  a  tawny  beard  descended  in  undulating  Hues  to 
his  chest.  His  stature  was  tall,  his  carriage  lofty  ;  he  had 
the  air  of  command.  There  were  no  pistols,  no  poignard  ; 
and  yet  I  said  to  myself,  with  the  invincible  assurance  of 


72  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

a  sudden  presentiment,  '  This  man  is  some  captain,  going 
to  stir  up  battle  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine/ 
Such,  in  fact,  he  was. 

"What  brought  us  into  communication?  What  broke 
the  silence  between  us  ?  A  nothing,  a  jolt  of  the  diligence, 
the  fatigue  of  my  infirm  relative,  my  anxious  expression. 
He  had  the  corner,  which  was  the  best  place  ;  he  rose,  and 
with  a  frank  smile,  and  a  thousand  charming  attentions, 
installed  the  baroness  in  it,  put  his  cloak  under  and  round 
her  feet.  We  talked.  The  burgomaster,  the  American, 
and  all  the  rest  still  slept  on.  Of  what  did  we  talk  ?  Of 
the  rain,  of  the  spring-time,  of  the  uncertainties  of  fate,  of 
the  revolutions  everywhere  breaking  out.  Here  his  eyes 
Hashed. 

"  I  am  going  there  !"  he  said,  throwing  back  his  head, 
not  with  the  air  of  a  boaster,  but  of  one  rejoicing  in  some 
happy  enthusiasm.  "  I  am  going  there  ;  into  my  own  Ger 
many  !  I  re-enter  my  own  country,  and  liberty  re-entera 
with  me." 

"  Are  you  sure  to  conquer  1" 
"  I  am  sure  to  combat." 
"  The  army  of  the  State  is  numerous." 
"  Ours  is  more  so  ;  it  is  the  nation." 
"You  do  not  hesitate  to  embroil  your  own  country?" 
"  It  must  be  !"     For  a  moment  he  knit  his  brows,  and 
seemed  lost  in  thought;  then,  raising  his  head,  he  con 
tinued  : — "  Every  one  must  have  his  fair  place  under  the 

sun or  under  the  rain,"  he  added,  glancing  with  a  smile 

at  the  window.  "  In  fact,  there  must  be  bread  for  all,  joy 
for  all,  leisure  for  all.  There  must  be  no  disinherited 
children  on  the  face  of  the  earth ;  no  longer  must  this 
man  be  corrupted  by  superfluous  wealth,  while  this  other 
is  starving.  Harvests  ripen  for  all.  The  house  of  stone, 


THE  HEGELIAN.  73 

good  furniture,   the  easy  and  calm   life,    should   be   for 
all." 

At  this  moment  he  encountered  the  frightened  expres 
sion  of  the  baroness. 

"  I  am  not  a  Red,  nor  a  confiscator  of  other  men's  goods, 
though  appearance,  it  seems,  is  against  me.  I  am  higher. 
I  wish  nothing  but  justice, — nothing  but  what  God  wills 
I  wish  equality." 

"  Equality  !"  I  exclaimed.  "  Since  the  days  of  Eden,  it 
has  not  been  known  upon  the  earth.  The  day  after  yon 
had  made  division  of  the  spoil" 

"  I  divide  no  spoil ;  I  want  to  prepare  the  earth ;  I 
want  to  remove  all  obstacles  to  progress  •  I  want  to  open 
a  great  career  to  humanity,  to  that  young  humanity  which 
aspires.  It  claims  its  share  of  happiness,  its  right  to  re 
joice,  and  it  shall  have  it." 

"  I  fear  that  to  the  end  of  time  there  will  be  strong  and 
feeble,  the  ugly  and  the  beautiful,  men  honest  and  men 
vicious.  What  becomes  of  your  equality  ?" 

The  Captain  shook  his  head 

"  These  are  old  ideas,"  he  said  ;  "  the  rags  left  us  by  the 
middle  ages.  The  world  advances  to  a  social  revolution  ; 
it  will  leave  its  winter  skin  on  the  bushes  of  the  month  of 
May." 

"  But  those  others — the  obstructives  as  you  call  them — 
will  defend  their  old  customs." 

"  I  know  it  well." 

"  And  then  ?" 

"  And  then— we  kill  them." 

This  was  said  with  a  voice  sad  but  inexorable. 

"  If  they  would  trust  themselves  to  us,"  he  continued, 
"  they  should  wither  out  in  peace.  This  they  \vill  not,  and 
they  cannot  do." 


74  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

• 

I  contemplated  with  terror  this  melancholy  smile,  thia 
sincere  look,  this  insane  goodness  and  candour,  deluded  by 
some  horrible  Utopia,  decorated  \vith  flowers,  and  dripping 
with  blood.  An  instant  after,  he  resumed  with  a  voice 
that  slightly  trembled,  but  which  vibrated  \vith  an  absolute 
confidence  in  himself — 

"  Whatever  is  born,  must  die.  This  is  an  eternal  law. 
No  level  was  ever  made,  that  did  not  destroy  flowers  as 
well  as  weeds.  Our  social  revolution  will  issue  from  the 
tomb.  To  arrive  at  universal  harmony,  we  must  stifle  the 
discordant  sounds." 

"  They  will  return  from  every  side." 

"  No  I" 

This  no  was  said  simply  with  an  overwhelming  assurance. 

"  But/'  I  replied,  "  these  discordant  notes,  they  are  living 
men." 

The  Captain  reflected ;  then,  in  a  low  voice,  said — 

"  Yes,  one  hundred  thousand  heads." 

"  A  hundred  thousand  heads  rolling  from  the  scaffoM, 
and  millions  of  women  in  despair,  children  and  mothers." 

"  This  morning  were  there  no  women  in  despair  ?  no 
infants  who  wept  on  the  earth  ?  no  fathers,  or  mothers,  or 
poor  people  who  died?" 

"  Some — yes — here  and  there." 

"  Everywhere  ! — on  all  sides  of  this  desolated  world,  at 
every  second  there  rises  a  cry  of  agony." 

"  It  is  a  world  accursed,  which  we  men  have  ruined,  have 
lost" 

"  That  I  do  not  believe." 

"  What !  you  do  not  believe  yourself  a  sinner  ?" 

"  No  !"  This  other  no  was  pronounced  with  the  same 
absolute  certainty.  A  moment  after  he  added,  with  a 
softer  expression — 


THE  HEGELIAN.  75 

"  I  trouble,  I  alarm  you.  But  see  you  not  that  death 
mows  down  generation  after  generation — a  little  sooner,  a 
little  later,  what  matters  it?  We  all  fall  at  our  given 
hour;  all  as  the  ploughshare  lays  us  in  the  furrow.  A 
single  war,  the  wars  of  your  Emperor,  have  killed  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  men." 

"  I  detest  war." 

"  The  cholera  which  has  just  broken  out  in  London,  i-i 
Paris,  will  cut  down  thirty  thousand  men  in  a  day." 

"  That  is  God's  doing." 

"WelH" 

"  You  are  not  God." 

The  Hegelian  regarded  me  with  his  bland,  inexorable 
look. 

"  I  am  God,"  he  said. 

I  shuddered. 

"  I  am  God !  My  thought  is  a  ray  of  the  Divine 
Thought,  my  will  is  a  part  of  the  Supreme  Will ;  the 
Great  Heart  which  beats  there  above  beats  in  me,  in  you, 
in  all." 

A  burlesque  idea  will  sometimes  traverse  the  mind  in  its 
most  serious  moods.  I  could  not  help  looking  opposite 
with  a  smile  at  the  burgomaster  ;  the  Captain  followed  my 
glance ;  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  continued  with 
imperturbable  calm — 

"  Yes,  he  also,  as  well  as  others — only  somewhat  more 
enveloped.  We  are  all  wave.?  of  the  one  ocean,  from  which 
we  emerge,  into  which  we  sink.  God  !  God  is*the  world  ! 
God  vibrates  in  every  plant,  in  every  insect,  in  the  sun 
above  us,  in  these  drops  of  rain  about  us." 

Then,  returning  to  his  own  defence,  he  said — 

"  I  have  a  right  to  do  what  I  do.  I  shall  die — that  is 
very  possible  ;  others  will  die — that  is  r  er tain.  Humanity 


76  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

advances  perhaps  through  destruction.  Did  not  the  Israel 
ites  traverse  the  Eed  Sea?  A  reviving  humanity  will 
tlourish  on  a  youthful  earth,  and  the  golden  age  will  re- 
descend  from  heaven'' 

I,  feeling  all  speec. .  powerless  to  cope  with  so  great  a 
folly,  did  what  the  fashionable  world  will  think  very  ridicu 
lous,  puritanical  in  short.  I  took  out  my  New  Testament, 
and  gave  it  him.  The  Captain  extended  his  hand,  received 
it,  looked  at  it,  and  as  he  put  it  into  his  bosom,  he  said, 
with  a  serene  and  radiant  expression — the  expression  of 
one  of  the  illuminati — 

"  I  know  it  well — your  Bible." 

"  If  you  know  it,  you  have  seen  there  the  true  law  of 
universal  love  ? " 

Without  answering  me,  he  pursued  his  own  thought. 

"  I  have  more  than  once  studied  its  pages  ;  I  have  pene 
trated  its  deeper  and  concealed  meaning.  It  has  an  appa 
rent,  and  it  has  a  mysterious  signification." 

"  It  should  be  read  with  an  honest,  simple  spirit.  It 
was  written  for  simple  men." 

A  light  flashed  into  his  eyes.  "  You  have  the  letter," 
he  said  ;  "  we  have  the  spirit." 

After  this  we  fell  into  a  profound  silence. 

Miserable  world,  thought  I,  if  ever  God  delivers  it  to 
such  fallen  angels  as  these  ! 

The  Captain  broke  the  silence,  and  with  a  tone  of  kind 
ness,  in  which,  however,  one  traced  the  habitual  exercise  of 
authority,  he  said — 

"  We  are  approaching  Bale.  Permit  me  to  make  a  pro 
position.  Madame  is  timid,  and  you  will  find  Germany  in 
flames.  Let  me  accompany  you.  With  me  you  will  pass 
everywhere.  I  will  leave  you  on  the  frontiers  of  Prussia ; 
i!  will  be  for  me  only  the  delay  of  two  days." 


THE  HEGELIAN.  77 

He  made  the  proposition  in  simple  good  faith.  Such 
self-negation,  such  complete  candour  and  sincerity  beamed 
in  his  countenance,  that  I  could  not  but  feel  touched  at 
his  offer.  Should  I  have  done  as  much — I,  the  wiser  one, 
v.-lio  looked  down  on  him  in  pity  1 

I  refused  it  nevertheless.  He  insisted  just  as  far  as 
good  breeding  permitted.  Then  gathering  together  his 
cloak  and  some  baggage,  he  called  to  the  postilion.  The 
diligence  stopped,  he  descended,  his  companions  grouped 
themselves  around  him ;  with  a  rapid  movement,  full  of 
energy,  and  a  sort  of  poetic  fervour,  he  waved  his  adieu  to 
us,  cast  one  look  up  into  the  skies,  then  struck  off  across 
the  plain  to  gain  the  Rhine. 

I  was  bewildered.  This  candour  of  a  child,  with  this 
delirium  of  pride,  this  kind  soul  with  this  inexorable  hard 
ness  !  God  at  once  adored  and  denied  !  What  an  abyss  ! 

Terrible  creatures  these  ideologists  ! 

To  spare  some  trouble  to  an  aged  woman,  this  man 
would  willingly  have  traversed  two  hundred  leagues,  and 
this  same  man,  coldly,  with  that  beautiful  smile  upon  his 
lips,  would  send  a  hundred  of  his  fellow-creatures  to  the 
scaffold.  Just  now,  to  save  us  from  some  anxiety,  he 
would  have  risked  for  himself  the  danger  of  delay ;  and 
if,  four  days  hence,  we  should  be  brought  before  him  as 
obstructives  to  human  progress,  he  would  order  our  decapi 
tation  without  the  least  remorse.  He  would  not  even  find 
it  necessary  to  harden  his  heart  against  us.  No.  From 
the  depths  of  his  Absolute,  from  the  centre  of  his  Eternity, 
he  is  indifferent  to  the  tears  of  the  day,  and  the  death  of  a 
transitory  generation.  Proud  fatalist,  with  a  calm,  un- 
trembling  hand,  he  would  baptize  the  earth  with  blood, 
contemplating  the  gay  futurity  that  is  to  advance  crowned 
with  roses. 


78  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

Truth !  Truth  !  thou  indeed  art  worth  all  we  suffer  for 
thee.  Truth,  thou  savest  us  from  madness  ;  without  thee 
we  should  be  tossed  like  a  dismasted  vessel  on  the  billows 
of  our  own  thoughts.  Through  the  bright  heavens,  and 
through  the  abysses  of  the  night,  I  have  sought  for  thee  ; 
I  have  found  thee ;  thou  wert  not  far  from  me ;  truth  of 
the  gospel,  I  clasp  thee  to  my  heart ! 

Whilst  I,  with  my  thoughts  and  my  prayers,  followed 
the  Captain,  the  diligence  entered  with  great  clatter  into 
the  old  town  of  Bale. 

This  time  we  saw  none  of  its  curiosities.  We  left  the 
Palace  of  Justice,  and  its  red  sculptures,  in  peace,  and  the 
stork  with  her  traditional  nest  on  the  roof  of  the  church. 

The  hotel  of  The  Three  Kings  was  full  of  families  from 
Baden,  taking  shelter  from  the  political  storm.  We  con 
sulted  our  host  in  some  alarm.  "  Oh,  it  is  nothing  at  all !" 
said  our  contented  Boniface.  "  There  are  no  refolutions" 
he  assured  us  in  his  Swiss  accent  "  The  Governments  are 
in  flight— /oi/a  tout  !  But  order  is  not  disturbed." 

"  But  the  King  of  Bavaria  V1 

"Fled— ils'est  saufe!" 

"And  the  Grand-Duke  of  Baden  ?" 

"  Saufe — il  s'est  saufe  !" 

"And  the  King  of  Prussia?" 

"II  n'cst  pas  encore  sanfe — Ah,  bah  !  it  is  nothing  !" 

All  this  he  said  with  the  most  paternal  air  in  the  world, 
which  made  us  smile,  if  it  did  not  completely  reassure  us. 

However,  we  resolve  to  continue  our  journey.  We  had 
cogent  reasons  for  so  doing.  On  the  morrow  we  set  forth 
again. 

There  was  revolution  apparent  everywhere.  The  train 
v.hich  took  us,  brought  to  the  German  frontier  some  body 
of  volunteers,  with  the  scarlet  plume  in  their  hats.  They 


THE  HEGELIAN.  71) 

tvere  exiles  returning  to  tlicir  country, — young  men,  ardent^ 
inflamed,  shouting  hurrahs  of  victory. 

In  the  boat  that  carried  us  down  the  Ilhine  nobody  at 
all.  Not  a  single  passenger.  Yes,  there  were  two  Jews, 
whom  business  could  induce  to  run  whatever  risk  there 
was.  They  took  possession  of  the  vacant  saloon,  and  as  it 
happened  to  be  their  Sabbath-day,  they  recited  their  prayers 
—the  prayer  especially  called  the  Assault — with  linen  bands 
rolled  round  the  arm,  and  a  veil  thrown  over  the  head,  and 
with  alternate  rhythmical  sentences,  like  a  piece  of  counter 
point. 

As  we  approached  the  insurgent  towns,  loud  cries  were 
heard,  and  the  report  of  fire-arms,  t  explosions  of  triumph 
which  were  either  to  welcome  or  defy  us.  At  Mannheim, 
a  drunken  soldier,  the  republican  cockade  in  his  shako, 
came,  escorted  by  a  band  armed  with  scythes,  to  deliver 
to  us,  on  the  landing-place,  a  discourse  on  the  rights  of 
humanity  \  uproarious  clamours  from  the  quay  supported 
him. 

In  Prussia  nothing  stirred.  It  was  a  calm  too  complete 
not  to  be  factitious  ;  a  calm  under  which  one  felt  as  it  wcr  j 
the  ebullition  of  the  rising  storm. 

The  only  external  symptom  we  met  with  of  social  dis 
order,  promenaded  itself  in  the  little  town  we  inhabited, 
under  the  form  of  Bwschen,  displaying  a- wondrous  quan 
tity  of  hair,  more  than  the  sacred  race  of  long-haired 
kings  ever  boasted.  They  passed  and  re-passed  under  our 
windows,  arm  in  arm,  clothed  in  short  frock-coats  of  apple 
green,  of  celestial  blue,  the  boldest  of  them  having  the  red 
cap  on  their  heads.  The  triangle,  emblem  of  equality,  the 
level  or  the  axe,  a  sort  of  jewellery  in  fine  steel,  glittered 
on  the  front  of  it ;  some  even  displayed  a  miniature  guillo 
tine.  Under  the  cap  escaped  silken  fleece  for  hair,  light  or 


80  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

dark  or  tawny ;  and  they  sang  to  the  cadenced  step,  xrith 
flashing  eyes,  and  defiant  countenance. 

This  exhibition  did  not  last  long.  Three  or  four  regi 
ments  took  up  their  quarters  in  the  little  town,  then  some 
squadrons  of  cavalry,  thei  some  artillery,  then  some 
dragoons,  till  a  corps-farmed  had  formed  itself.  Farewell 
to  our  students,  farewell  to  our  fantastic  perukes,  all  has 
disappeared  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

I  shall  never  forget  those  beautiful  evenings — melan 
choly  nevertheless,  for  civil  war  muttered  on  the  horizon — • 
when,  under  the  acacias  in  blossom,  we  listened  to  the 
military  music, — that  admirable  metallic  music,  so  correct, 
so  disciplined,  under  which  throbs  a  spirit  all  the  more 
ardent,  because  it  is  well  restrained.  I  shall  never  forge* 
that  overture  to  Tannhaiiser,  which  was  to  me  the  revela 
tion  of  a  new  world  of  harmony,  with  its  introduction,  re 
minding  me  of  the  gigantic  architecture  of  Egypt,  and 
those  ironical  phrases  insinuating  themselves  into  the 
melody  like  an  infernal  laugh  ;  while  the  whole  rose,  like 
a  rising  tide,  in  one  swelling  chant  of  all  mingled  emotions, 
sadness  and  agony,  and  heroism  and  worship. 

At  these  times,  I  know  not  why,  the  memory  of  my 
Hegelian  captain  returned  to  me.  Before  these  troops 
which  were  about  to  enter  Bavaria  and  besiege  Radstadt,  I 
could  only  feel  compassion  for  him. 

Sometimes  this  metallic  orchestra  gave  out  a  patriotic 
song,  then,  suddenly  pausing,  the  sonorous  voices  of  the 
soldiers  took  up  the  melody,  repeating  the  refrain;  and 
there  was,  in  the  contrast  between  the  metallic  sound  of 
the  band  and  the  flexible  sweetness  of  the  human  voice, 
something  unusual,  something  unexpected,  that  touched 
the  heart,  like  the  contrasts  one  meets  with  in  the  moral 
world. 


THE  HEGELIAN.  8] 

One  fair  morning  all  this  military  array  departed.  The 
win  rose,  and  there  was  nothing  but  the  scattered  hay 
in  the  market-place.  Our  birds  sang  with  the  greater 
courage, — the  thrush  in  the  meadows,  the  nightingale  in 
the  grove. 

Some  way  out  of  the  town  the  several  regiments  halted 
to  receive  the  Prince  of  Prussia,  who  commanded  the  expe 
dition.  They  halted  at  a  spot  I  knew  well, — under  the 
cherry-trees,  and  where  the  grass  had  been  lately  mown. 
How  they  laughed,  how  joyous  they  were,  as  on  some  green 
and  shady  slope  they  threw  their  knapsack  on  the  ground, 
and  the  shako  from  their  head  !  All  on  a  sudden  an  elec 
tric  shock  ran  through  the  ranks:  "To  ycur  arms!  the 
Prince  !  the  Prince  !" 

In  an  instant  all  were  on  their  feet.  The  Prince  of 
Prussia  galloped  along  the  battalions,  sword  drawn,  with 
lofty  mien.  Stopping  before  each  regiment,  he  pronounced 
some  words  with  rapid  utterance  :  Hilf  Gott — Gott  mit 
uns  !  Salvos  of  cannon  and  musketry  responded. 

He  placed  himself  at  their  head,  with  his  staff  and  hia 
group  of  young  aides-de-camp  :  Vorwdrts  !  and  the  army 
put  itself  in  motion,  the  several  corps  one  after  the  other ; 
the  artillery,  with  its  cannon,  making  the  earth  tremble ; 
the  hussars,  clad  in  their  sombre  colours  ;  tho  lancers,  with 
their  crimson  pennons ;  the  dragoons,  with  their  golder. 
helmets ;  the  solid  infantry,  advancing  with  well-timed 
step.  As  each  corps  moved  on,  it  raised  its  song  of  war. 

It  was  a  grand,  a  royal  spectacle  ;  one  of  those  pictures 
which  twenty  years  of  tears  and  joys  cannot  efface  from 
the  memory.  The  fresh  and  fragrant  breeze  played  over 
the  landscape,  and  unrolled  the  military  standards  ;  never 
was  a  sky  more  radiant,  never  was  an  army  more  elated  : 
All  care  seemed  swept  from  their  brow.  Nevertheless,  to 

p 


82  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

me  the  gloriouu  spectacle  brought  with  it  one  thought  of 
mortal  sadness  :  it  was  no  foreign  invader  that  these  troops 
marched  to  encounter,  but  children  of  the  same  soil,  speak 
ing  the  same  language,  —  Germans  like  themselves. 

This  is  what  I  could  not  make  an  old  general,  a  friend 
of  ours,  comprehend,  who  had  been  left  behind  to  guard 
the  position. 

Ten  days  had  not  passed  before  there  arrived  amongst 
us  messengers  swelling  with  their  great  tidings  :  the  Duchy 
of  Baden  had  submitted,  Bavaria  had  been  reconquered, 
governments,  kings,  grand  dukes,  all  had  been  restored. 

Radstadt  held  out  a  little  longer.  Then  commenced 
reprisals  which  were  severe,  and  martial  law,  terribly  expe 
ditious. 

"  Fisullies  !  "  cried  the  general,  who  had  long  ago  ceased 
liis  attempts  to  bring  into  order  the  rebellious  vowels  of 
the  French  alphabet.  *'  Fisullies  the  chiefs  !  Fisullies  the 
soldiers  !  Fisullies  the  blockheads  who  let  them  do  it."  If 
I  named  this  one  or  that  one,  the  general  answered  by  an 
expressive  gesture,  took  aim  with  his  walking  stick,  pulled 
an  imaginary  trigger,  and  uttered  with  a  laugh  his  absurd 


This  is  all  I  have  been  ever  able  to  learn  of  the  Hegelian 


THE  SPRINGS. 

is  the  name  given  to  a  small  enclosure  of 
the  mountain,  situated  about  a  third  of  the  way 
up.  The  firs,  which  grow  very  high,  and  are 
very  thick  there,  suddenly  open  out,  and  leave  a  free 
space ;  an  orchard,  planted  with  apple,  pear,  and  half- wild 
plum-trees,  with  a  strip  or  two  of  field  full  of  potatoes  and 
lucerne.  These  rise  steeply  to  the  forest.  Beyond,  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  wood,  stands  a  rustic  dwelling,  with  a 
fountain  before  it !  Four  springs  incessantly  flowing  into 
an  old  wooden  trough,  carved  long  ago,  and  embroidered 
with  mosses,  some  velvet-like  in  texture,  adhering  to  the 
bark  which  still  covers  the  trough ;  others  floating  in  long 
green  filaments  that  for  ever  wave  in  the  water  as  it  escapes. 
The  situation  is  solitary.  The  inhabitants  seldom  go  down 
to  the  plain  ;  this  enclosure  affords  them  occupation  enough, 
and  the  people  from  the  plain  still  more  seldom  come  up 
to  the  Springs.  It  is  not  a  chalet;  there  is  only  one 
cow,  not  any  butter  to  sell,  nor  provisions  to  take  to  the 
fruiterers. 

On  Sunday,  the  mother  or  the  daughters,  the  son  or 
the  father,  make  themselves  smart,  and  go  by  turns  to  a 
preaching  about  three  miles  off. 

In  summer,  some  child,  gathering  raspberries  amidst 
the  labyrinth  of  brushwood,  branches  of  broken  fir-tiees, 
fallen  trunks,  and  brambles  spreading  in  all  directions, 
comes 'sometimes  with  its  basket  to  drink  at  the  Springs, 


84  THE  NL&R  HORIZONS. 

and  to  sit  in  the  deep  shade  that,  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  the  pines  cast  over  the  fields. 

There  is  a  moment  of  positive  transfiguration  for  this 
small  domain.  This  is  in  the  month  of  May,  when  the 
orchard,  enclosed  by  its  dark  frame,  blossoms  like  a  bridal 
nosegay.  Will  it  be  believed,  this  spotless  white  rather 
saddens  me  ?  I  prefer  the  enclosure  in  the  midst  of  sum 
mer,  when  each  sepal;  ate  vegetation  colours  the  ground  with 
its  own  particular  tint ;  or  still  more,  in  autumn,  when  the 
wild  pears  grow  golden,  the  crab-apples  crimson,  and  the 
crops  are  heaped  up  under  the  granary  pent'-house.  At 
such  times,  a  smoke  may  be  seen  rising  from  a  sheltered 
.spot  near  the  house  ;  a  bright  fire  is  burning  under  a  shed 
hung  round  with  trusses  of  hemp.  There  sit  mother  and 
daughter,  noisily  beating  out  the  sheaves.  This  sound  is 
almost  the  only  one  you  hear  ;  the  folks  at  the  Springs  are 
not  great  talkers,  nor  great  singers  either. 

During  the  dull  November  mornings,  when  it  is  very 
cold  on  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  the  ground  is  strewn 
with  wild  fruit  not  worth  the  gathering,  the  enclosure 
sometimes  receives  a  visit  from  a  stranger — the  bear — the 
great  brown  bear — the  harmless  bear  of  our  Jura,  strays 
down  in  the  fog,  and  before  the  inhabitants  have  opened 
their  door,  comes  and  stuffs  himself  with  crab-apples.  He 
would  willingly  enjoy  a  little  honey  too,  but  the  row  of 
hives  leans  up  against  the  house ;  and  besides,  they  are 
but  poor  ones ;  the  young  July  swarms,  which  would  die 
in  the  plains  for  want  of  flowers,  being  sent  here,  where 
they  can  still  get  at  some  late  clover ;  to  be  taken  back  in 
September,  only  two  being  left,  closed  up  during  the  winter 
with  little  fir-branches. 

When  Master  Bear  has  feasted  sufficiently,  he  trots  off 
again  into  the  wood.  Never  has  he  allowed  himself,  the 


THE  SPRINGS.  85 

least  impropriety,  auch  as  carrying  away  the  goat,  the 
heifer,  or  some  stray  child.  He  is  indeed  a  most  saintly 
character  this  bear  :  he  lives  upon  little ;  abstains  from 
flesh ;  the  most  he  permits  himself  is  to  crop  the  young 
*  barley  in  June,  when  about*  the  length  of  his  tongue. 
The  people  at  the  Springs  once  saw  him ;  if  not  the 
father,  the  grandfather  did ;  at  all  events,  they  firmly 
believe  in  him,  and  on  December  nights,  when  the  south 
wind  howls  in  gusts  through  the  forest,  bending  the  firs, 
and  making  them  groan  again,  the  frightened  children 
think  they  hear  Bruin  growling  in  distress  in  the  depths 
of  the  wood. 

In  winter  all  is  white,  the  branches  bend  under  the 
snow;  great  drifts  block  up  the  path,  and  flakes  fall 
silently;  you  only  hear  the  crystalline  voice  of  the 
Springs ;  the  flail  of  the  father  busy  in  the  barn  with  his 
son ;  and  in  the  house,  the  little  monotonous  murmur  of 
the  spinning-wheels.  But  when  one  of  those  fine  January 
days  comes,  when  the  sky  is  blue  throughout,  and  the  sun 
marches  on  royally  crowned  with  beams,  and  not  a  breath 
is  stirring, — there  is  in  this  sparkling  enclosure,  in  these 
firs  rearing  their  jagged  pyramids — each  spike  of  which  is 
turned  to  a  diamond,  in  those  rocks  that  look  through 
them,  in  the  pure  atmosphere  and  the  great  calm, — there  is 
something  at  once  very  striking,  solemn,  and  splendid. 

In  May,  the  firs  are  in  flower ;  the  orchard  has  not  yet 
opened  out  its  blossoms,  which  at  present  show  in  abund 
ance,  as  little  red  balls  at  the  edge  of  the  dark-green  of 
the  wood.  You  would  say  that  summer  in  her  haste  had 
overturned  a  basket  of  cherries  there. 

When  I  went  up  thither,  however,  it  was  neither  the 
season  of  snow  nor  of  fruit,  it  was  on  a  beautiful  Easter 
Sunday. 


8G  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

"  The  girl  at  the  Springs  wants  you,"  one  of  the  women 
in  the  village  had  said  to  me ;  "  you  '11  just  have  to  go  at 
once  there." 

"What  does  she  want?" 

"  Who  can  say  ?    She  haS  been  too  much  at  her  books."* 

I  smiled,  and  took  the  way  through  the  meadows. 
There  were  no  leaves  on  the  trees,  none  on  the  bushes 
and  yet  it  was  the  flowery  Easter  tide. 

The  black  thorn  projected  its  stiff  boughs,  covered  with 
white  buds  and  open  blossoms,  proclaiming  the  spring 
from  every  hedge.  Tufts  of  violets  spotted  the  brown 
grass  of  winter  with  their  blue  ;  green  blades  piercing 
through  it  too  here  and  there.  The  air  was  filled  with  a 
thousand  discreet  murmurs  from  insects  returning  to  life, 
newly-wakened  flies  flew  hither  and  thither,  long  black 
lines  of  ants  crossed  the  pathway.  You  could  see  the  sap 
rising  in  the  still  leafless  branches, — some  were  scarlet,  some 
darker  red,  some  yellow  as  rods  of  gold. 

The  country  was  bare.  A  pretty  keen  north  wind 
careered  over  its  hollows,  the  trees  had  no  young  twigs, 
no  nests,  no  secrets,  the  glance  that  wandered  to  the  dis 
tance  came  back  disappointed,  and  yet  April  reigned.  At 
ts  bidding,  spring  scents  rose  from  the  earth.  The  tiny 
guitars,  the  unpretending  Jews'-harps  of  instrumentalists, 
concealed  in  cups  of  flowers,  celebrated  the  return  of  the 
leafy  season.  April  laughed  in  the  air;  you  felt  that 
warm  showers  were  on  the  way,  leaf-bringing  showers  which 
would  cover  the  hedges  with  a  green  mantle.  The  earth 
had  not  yet  donned  her  variegated  garments,  but  she  had 
unstiffened  ;  she  was  getting  warm. 

When  I  drew  near  the  mountain,  and  plunged  into  the 
forest,  the  face  of  things  changed.  The  pines,  always  green, 
v.-rapped  me  in  their  shade.  Underneath  them  there  is 


THE  SPRINGS.  87 

neither  spring  nor  summer ;  you  only  feel  the  influence  of 
their  unchangeabieness ;  always  a  soft  arborescent  moss 
covering  the  shady  spots  with  a  carpet  that  absorbs  the 
light;  always  the  smooth  ground  spreading  away  under 
the  colonnade  of  trees ;  always  an  equably  lighted  atmo 
sphere  ;  always  this  profound  peace ;  always  this  air  play 
ing  freshly  round  the  smooth,  straight  trunks  that  rise  in 
the  immense  forest  nave. 

As  I  ascended,  as  the  plain  sunk,  my  eye  travelled  to 
greater  and  greater  depths.  Through  openings  in  the  trees 
I  could  see  very  far  below  me  in  the  distance,  the  old 
town  with  its  old  Burgundian  towers ;  further  still,  at  the 
extreme  horizon,  the  white  Alps  ranging  themselves  tier 
above  tier,  with  the  giant  Mont  Blanc  calmly  throned  upon 
their  heads. 

The  wood  was  impregnated  with  a  freshness  unknown 
to  the  plain ;  one  inhaled  there  a  keen  aromatic  air,  which 
would  have  felt  almost  raw,  had  it  not  been  tempered  by 
some  sunbeams  falling  on  all  open  places,  lighting  up  the 
raspberry  bushes  and  brambles  that  grew  there. 

As  I  went  along,  I  thought  of  the  family  at  the  Springs. 
Worthy  people,  though  rather  odd.  Father,  mother,  sons, 
all  hard  workers,  not  mixing  much  with  their  neighbours, 
taciturn,  dull-eyed,  and  absent;  very  intelligent  as  to  what 
concerned  their  own  affairs ;  but  half  afraid  of  their  neigh 
bours,  and  keeping  them  at  a  distance. 

Margaret,  the  eldest  daughter,  had  done  the  same  till 
the  age  of  twenty.  Then  sJi3  suddenly  took  to  leaving  her 
solitude ;  every  Sunday  she  went  down  through  the  wood, 
accompanied  the  other  young  people  to  the  villages  round, 
and  came  back  late. 

Her  father  and  mother  did  not  object  to  this ;  on  the 
contrary,  solitary  themselvCvS  in  their  ways,  they  were  glad 


88  THE  NEAR  HORIZON'S. 

to  push  their  children  a  little  into  the  world.  The  sons 
did  not  venture  out ;  they  were  awkward,  and  they  knew 
it,  were  not  up,  as  they  said,  to  talking  to  the  girls.  But 
Margaret,  with  only  her  twenty  summers  over  her  head, 
her  tall  figure,  and  her  lofty  air,  was  not  so  easily  abashed. 

All  at  once,  without  any  apparent  reason,  she  left  off 
going  out.  Her  mother  wished  to  talk  to  her  about  the 
dances  down  in  the  valley ;  she  only  wept.  Her  father 
tried  might  and  main  to  send  her  off  there  again ;  she 
locked  herself  up  in  her  attic. 

One  evening  that  her  young  companions  came  to  look 
for  her,  she  went  so  high  up  into  the  wood,  she  knew  all 
its  hiding-places  so  well,  that  not  a  youth  among  them, 
looking  ever  so  cleverly,  was  able  to  find  her  out.  That 
night,  at  eleven  o'clock,  she  returned  home. 

Gradually  she  grew  sadder  and  sadder,  and  shut  herself 
up  more.  She  would  sit  spinning  at  the  window  without 
even  looking  out :  spring  came,  she  went  on  spinning  ;  she 
no  longer  worked  in  the  garden,  she  who  used  to  be  so 
fond  of  it.  But  she  read  a  great  deal,  especially  in  the 
large  Bible. 

"  That's  what  has  done  it !"  said  her  father,  and  he  took 
her  books  away.  Margaret  said  nothing ;  for  a  moment 
her  spirits  seemed  to  return,  but  it  was  a  mere  flash.  She 
got  gloomier  than  ever,  spun  more  diligently,  then  left  off 
spinning  altogether,  or  very  nearly  so ;  sat  pensive  in  the 
corner  of  the  window ;  refused  to  eat,  and  took  to  her 
bed. 

Twelve  was  striking  when  I  got  to  the  Springs.  A  few 
bees  humming  round  the  hives,  which  stood  on  a  plank 
before  the  window,  were  trying  their  wings  in  an  April 
Bunbeam.  The  water  gushed  and  danced  with  a  fresh 
warbling  sound.  In  the  stable,  the  prolonged  lowing  erf 


THE  SPRINGS.  89 

the  cow  was  heard,  she  was  conscious  that,  out  of  door,  the 
grass  was  growing  green.  A  handsome  black  tom-cat,  with 
gentle,  limped  eyes,  had  settled  himself  on  the  threshold  of 
the  barn,  enjoying  the  sun  in  supreme  idleness.  A  pleasant 
smell  of  good  rustic  soup  spread  all  round  the  farmhouse. 
Everywhere  reigned  perfect  order  and  deep  silence,  suggest 
ing  thoughts  of  a  simple  life,  which  opened  out  upon  the 
soul  like  sudden  peeps  into  an  unknown  land,  very  beautiful 
and  very  good,  that  we  have  been  skirting  unconsciously. 

The  noise  made  by  my  entrance  brought  the  mother  out 
of  the  adjoining  room ;  she  looked  at  me  without  saying  a 
word,  half  surprised,  half  pleased,  but  surprise  prevailed, 
and  she  remained  motionless  and  embarrassed.  We  ex 
changed  preliminary  civilities. 

"  Your  daughter  is  ill  1" 

The  mother's  face  fell  "  She  has  been  too  much  at  hex- 
books." 

"She  sent  for  me?" 

Without  further  answer,  the  mother  stood  on  one  side  to 
let  me  enter,  and  then  followed  me  in. 

The  room  was  low  but  cheerful,  and  wainscoated  with 
deal.  There  were  two  spinning-wheels  in  the  two  windows, 
a  table,  walnut-wood  chairs  well  polished,  a  clock  in  a 
wooden  case,  with  a  glazed  opening,  through  which  one  saw 
the  oscillations  of  the  pendulum.  In  the  corner  stood  a 
curtainless  bed  ;  on  that  bed  lay  Margaret. 

"I  brought  her  down  here,"  the  mother  said  to  me; 
"up-stairs  she  would  be  too  lonely." 

You  heard  nothing  but  the  monotonous  sound  of  the 
pendulum,  and  a  sort  of  cracking  noise  before  the  stroke, 
each  time  the  needle  reached  the  quarters. 

Margaret  was  dressed  in  a  brown  woollen  petticoat,  the 
wool  of  their  own  sheep,  and  homespun.  A  blue  handker* 


90  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

chief,  with  white  bunches  of  flowers,  was  crossed  over  her 
breast.  The  only  unusual  thing  was,  that  instead  of  wear 
ing  a  black  cap  trimmed  with  lace,  her  hair  floated  at 
random  round  her  face.  And  then  the  apron  was  wanting 
— a  decided  sign  of  moral  perturbation  ;  and  her  shoes  too, 
strong  leather  shoes,  strongly  soled,  which  I  saw  standing 
against  the  wall. 

Margaret  was  lying  on  her  back,  pale,  her  marked  fea 
tures 'standing  out  from  the  wainscot,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ceiling,  her  hands  clenched.  There  was  about  this  calm 
of  hers  a  certain  character  of  determination,  defiance, — I 
might  almost  say,  despair. 

I  drew  near. 

"You  are  ill,  Margaret?" 

Margaret  did  not  answer. 

"  She  has  not  eaten  anything  for  the  last  three  days/' 
broke  in  the  mother.  "  We  could  hardly  get  her  to  take  a 
drop  of  cold  water  to  wet  her  lips  and  her  forehead." 

I  remarked  a  sort  of  dampness  on  the  young  girl's  fore 
head,  and  saw  that  the  hair  on  her  temples  was  wet.  I 
tried  to  take  her  hand,  but  her  fingers  contracted. 

"You  are  dressed;  you  have  been  up  a  little,  then, 
Margaret  1" 

Not  a  word. 

"  It  is  in  your  mind  you  are  suffering,  Margaret  V 

She  turned  her  large  eyes,  the  rest  of  her  face  remaining 
rigid,  and  fixed  them  on  me. 

"You  wished  to  see  me?" 

With  a  sudden  energetic  motion  she  rose,  threw  her  feet 
out  of  the  bed,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  it. 

"  You  had  something  to  say  to  me  ?" 

Margaret  looked  full  at  me.  "I  am  lost !"  she  said,  in 
a  firm,  rather  choked  voice,  but  without  any  violent  out- 


THE  SPRINGS.  91 

burst.  She  had  measured,  her  strength  against  this  thought ; 
she  had  lived  in  the  contemplation  of  it.  It  was  one  of 
which  she  knew  the  length  and  breadth  and  height. 

A  strange  feeling  came  over  me,  almost  of  joy.  This 
young  girl  occupied  with  the  care  of  her  soul  at  an  age 
when,  bewildered  with  pleasure,  few  inquire  whether  in 
deed  they  have  one  or  not ;  this  young  girl  seemed  to  me 
rather  saved  than  lost ;  consequently  in  a  voice  vibrating 
with  cheerful  hope — 

"You  think  yourself  lost?"  I  replied.  "It  is  a  good 
sign,  Margaret.  You  will  not  remain  where  you  are ;  you 
will  seek,  you  will  find" 

She  shook  her  head ;  then  in  a  monotonous  tone,  as  if 
speaking  to  herself,  her  eyes  fixed  on  I  know  not  what 
vague  something  where  nothing  was, — 

"  It  is  all  over  !"  she  said.  "  I  went  back  to  the  world  ; 
I  did  so  though  I  was  well  warned  ;  I  did  so  in  spite  of 
God  ;  I  have  committed  the  unpardonable  sin  ;  there  is  no 
more  forgiveness  !" 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Margaret  1  Are  you  to  limit  the 
powers  of  God  !  What  creature  dares  to  utter  such  impious 
words  as  these, — no  more  forgiveness  I" 

"Another  sin  !  another  sin  !"  cried  the  young  girl,  clasp 
ing  her  hands  above  her  head. 

I  went  on  to  say,  very  calmly  indeed,  "  No  doubt  another 
sin  ;  and  as  long  as  we  speak  we  shall  go  on  sinning." 

She  remained  in  the  same  desolate  attitude.  I  gently 
unclasped  her  hands,  and  succeeded  in  taking  one  which 
she  left  in  my  grasp. 

"Margaret,  do  you  not  know  that  God  loves  you?" 

"  He  used  to  love  me  j  I  turned  my  back  upon  Him." 

"You  believe  in  Him?" 

"As  the  devils  do." 


92  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

"You  are  sorry  to  have  offended  Him V* 

She  did  not  answer,  but  tore  away  her  hand  and  rung  it 

"Do  the  devils  mourn  their  sins,  Margaret  I" 

"Yesterday!"  cried  the  young  girl,  following  her  own 
train  of  thought  without  being  arrested  by  mine ;  "  yes 
terday,  I  might  have  been  forgiven." 

She  rose  distractedly,  her  head  thrown  back,  and  began 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  with  tottering  steps,  I  fol 
lowing  her.  She  continued  saying  in  the  same  monotonous 
voice,  broken  every  now  and  then  by  a  wild  cry — 

"  Yesterday,  I  might  have  been  saved  I  did  not 
choose." 

"  Do  you  choose  now,  Margaret  ?" 

"Too  late!  too  late  !" 

"  Margaret,  in  God's  name !  Yes,  you  are  lost  if  yon 
will ;  you  have  not  chosen ;  be  it  so ;  but  is  there  not  a 
Saviour  in  heaven,  Margaret  ?" 

"Too  late  !  too  late!"  repeated  she,  setting  the  words  to 
the  sound  made  by  her  uneven  steps. 

"  It  is  not  then  Easter  Sunday  to-day  ?  Those  who  re 
joice  on  earth,  those  who  sing  up  there  in  heaven,  are  mad 
then  ?  The  dead  Christ  has  remained  dead ;  is  it  not  so, 
Margaret?" 

She  continued  her  cadenced  walk,  repeating  all  the 
while,  in  a  low  voice — "  Too  late  !  too  late  !" 

She  was  fearfully  beautiful ;  drawn  up  to  her  full  height, 
tottering,  her  hands  sometimes  thrown  out  before  her  with 
a  tragic  gesture,  sometimes  clasped ;  her  pale  face  subju 
gated  by  the  despotism  of  despair. 

Then  a  terrible  thought  crossed  my  mind,  but  I  would 
not  admit  it.  I  pressed  Margaret  hard ;  I  drove  her  from 
one  entrenchment  to  another ;  I  shewed  her  the  cross  of 
Jesus;  I  repeated  to  her  the  self -complaints  of  St  Paul, 


THE  SPRINGS.  93 

diid  Ms  cry  of  triumph.  I  was  indignant ;  I  was  overcome ; 
I  wept.  Margaret  did  not  listen ;  at  last  she  fell  upon  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  and  remained  there  speechless. 

I  fell  there  beside  her ;  the  day  was  getting  on  ;  all  was 
indeed  over.  Margaret  was  mad,  with  that  appalling  mad 
ness  which  reasons,  argues — is  armed  on  every  side  with 
logic — finds  a  fearful  satisfaction  in  the  depths  of  its  own 
despair. 

While  I  was  silent,  my  soul  lost  in  the  contemplation  of 
this  abyss,  Margaret  raised  her  head,  then  bent  towards 
me  gracefully,  as  if  to  listen.  Her  forehead  cleared,  her 
eyes  swam  in  light,  a  heavenly  smile  parted  her  lips ;  join 
ing  her  raised  hands  in  ecstasy — 

"  Thanks  ! "  she  cried,  in  a  voice  that  might  have  thrilled 
the  angels.  "  Thanks  !  I  have  got  peace  !  Thanks  !  I 
am  saved.  I  shall  see  my  God  !  Jesus  has  spoken  to  me. 
I  belong  to  Him,  to  Jesus."  She  wiped  her  dripping 
temples.  "Can  this  indeed  be  me?  Yes  it  is;  saved, 
saved  !"  She  threw  a  wondering  glance  around,  and  saw  me. 
"  I  believe !  You  have  done  me  good.  I  have  faith.  I  have 
it  here."  And  she  pressed  both  her  hands  to  her  heart. 

I  know  not  why,  but  this  burst  of  happiness  did  not 
expand  mine.  However  : 

"God  be  praised!"  I  said.  "And  now  that  you  are 
more  calm  "—Margaret's  brow  contracted  a  little — "  leave 
off  this  train  of  thought;  you  are  ill."  She  shook  her 
head.  "  Try  to  sleep." 

I  went  on  saying  kind  words  to  her, — gentle,  caressing 
words,  such  as  one  would  whisper  in  the  ear  of  a  feverish 
child.  Putting  aside  all  idea  of  uncertainty,  all  that  could 
shake  the  electrical  moral  ,'itmosphere,  I  tried  to  confirm 
her  in  her  happiness  as  in  a  permanent  state  out  of  which 
she  was  never  more  to  be  disturbed. 


94  THE  NEAR  HOnIZONS. 

I  was  still  speaking  when  her  face  changed ;  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  silence  me.  I  stopped ;  she  remained 
still  for  a  moment ;  then,  with  a  cry,  the  vehemence  and 
desolation  of  which  I  shall  never  forget — "He  is  there  !" 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  corner  of  the  room.  She  rose  up 
erect,  her  hair  standing  on  end,  made  a  step  forward,  with 
a  fixed  eye,  and  hand  still  extended. 

"  He  is  there  !" 

« who  r 

"  He  who  has  lost  me  !" 

"  You  are  saved,  Margaret,  you  are  saved  !" 

I  had  seized  hold  of  her  arm ;  I  shook  her  as  though 
to  waken  her  out  of  her  delusion.  She  did  not  even  look 
at  me. 

Her  mother  sat  there  silent  and  stupified. 

"  I  was  saved  ;  I  listened  to  him  ;  I  am  lost !" 

"  It  is  not  true  !"  I  cried  vehemently.  Margaret  raised 
her  finger. 

"  Hush,  God  is  speaking  to  me  !"  .  .  .  .  Then,  in  a  very 
low,  sweet  voice,  "  My  daughter,  thou  hast  doubted  !  I  had 
forgiven  thee,  my  daughter;  ....  my  child,  why  hast 
thou  done  so  ?" 

"  This  is  madness,  Margaret,  it  is  a  delusion  of  the 
wicked  one." 

Margaret  again  began  the  same  wild,  uneven  walk  as 
before ;  only  now  I  had  to  support  her,  and  she  no  longer 
reasoned.  At  one  moment,  she  listened  to  the  hissing 
whispers  of  Satan  the  accuser;  at  another,  to  that  counter 
feit  voice  of  God,  those  tenderly  inexorable  accents  which 
sealed  her  doom.  Her  screams  were  sometimes  maniacal ; 
then  came  tears  and  tenderness,  which  melted  my  heart ; 
then  fits  of  silence  more  fearful  still. 

As  for  me,  I  could  not  speak.     I  could  only  look  up  to 


THE  SPRINGS.  95 

heaven  with  that  ardent  look,  almost  indeed  audacious, 
out  glowing  with  so  much  pity,  such  strength  of  love  and 
faith,  and  such  humility  beneath  the  boldness,  that  it  goes 
straight  to  the  throne,  to  claim  the  tenderest  mercies  of 
God. 

And  then,  in  a  rapid  revulsion  of  feeling,  I  asked  myself 
whether  indeed  this  mad  woman  might  not  be  the  only 
wise  one.  On  which  side  really  was  the  insanity ;  on  hers, 
heart-broken,  her  eyes  drowned  in  tears,  her  breast  beaten 
by  her  hands ;  or  on  ours,  frivolous,  forgetful ;  on  ours, 
the  pious,  the  redeemed,  indulgent  to  ourselves,  and  lulling 
our  souls  with  the  repeated  cry,  Peace  !  Peace  ! 

No,  my  Saviour,  Thou  art  not  a  God  of  despair ;  Thou 
art  a  God  of  joy,  because  Thou  art  a  God  of  pardon. 

And  yet  something  like  a  shiver  ran  through  my  veins. 
This  lasted  all  the  day.  This  poor  maniac  who  saw  Satan, 
who  heard  the  Lord,  who  weighed  in  the  balance  of  the 
last  day  each  word  that  had  escaped  her  lips,  each  thought 
that  had  risen  to  her  heart;  this  mourner  who  took  in 
earnest  the  terrible  realities  of  the  Bible,  forgetting  only 
Jesus  ;  this  poor  woman,  deranged,  sick,  whom  I  wished  to 
console ;  I  in  my  sound  senses,  I  firm  in  my  faith ;  she 
shook  me  to  the  most  secret  centre  of  my  soul. 

When  the  day  got  low,  Margaret,  exhausted,  sunk  ou 
her  bed.  Her  father  and  brothers  had  returned. 

"  You  must  go  back,"  said  the  mother ;  "  we  are  much 
obliged,  but  you  do  no  good." 

"  Shall  I  send  for  a  doctor  ?" 

"  No.  Her  father  was  right  about  it.  She  has  been  too 
much  at  her  books" 

I  was  disturbing  the  family;  there  wab  nothing  indeed 
to  be  done,  or  rather  the  only  thing  to  be  done  was  what  I 
could  do  anywhere.  The  God  of  the  forests,  of  the  moun- 


96  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

tain  and  the  valley,  the  God  of  sorrowing  hearts,  is  every 
where  present.  I  walked  very  quickly  under  the  fir-trees ; 
I  wanted  rapid  exercise.  For  a  moment  stopping  at  the 
lower  border  of  the  wood  on  the  first  open  ground  com 
manding  the  glaciers  and  the  lakes,  I  inhaled  the  free  air ; 
I  gazed  upon  the  wide  expanse  before  me ;  I  dazzled  my 
self  with  light ;  drank  in  the  ineffable  calm  of  the  fields, 
and  then  I  took  my  way  along  the  meadows,  and  through 
the  corn-fields. 

Below  me,  beside  the  brook,  on  a  wild  pear-tree,  and 
perched  on  its  highest  branch,  looking  steadily  at  the  sun 
which  was  setting  in  his  purple,  or  rather  in  that  blended 
glory  of  scarlet  and  orange  which  overflowed  the  West,  sat 
a  redbreast,  with  throat  distended  and  quivering  wings. 
The  sound  of  my  steps  had  not  disturbed  him.  He  was 
revelling  in  all  this  magnificence;  he  was  chanting  his 
evening  chant ;  a  chant  of  adoration,  love,  and  hope ;  a 
trusting,  happy  song,  an  humble  ditty,  sparkling  all  over 
with  little  cries  of  joy — a  glorious  hymn  ;  it  was  one  and 
all  of  these.  The  flood  of  light  inundated  him ;  he  was 
lost  in  it  quite  ;  he  sang  as  long  as  the  radiance  of  the 
horizon  lasted  ;  then,  when  the  sun  had  left  our  hemi 
sphere,  when  the  pomp  of  his  setting  rays  was  over,  the 
redbreast,  flapping  his  little  wings,  went  to  shelter  under 
the  nearest  bush. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  came  about,  but  peace  had  returned 
to  my  heart. 


A  POOE  BOY. 

jjOOR,  and,  moreover,  ugly  to  a  degree  hardfy  per* 
missible,  except  to  very  clever  people  indeed, 
and  he  was  half-witted. 

He  was  the  son  of  a  shrewd  countryman,  a  shoemaker 
by  trade.  His  father,  a  great  talker,  musical  too,  in  his 
leisure  hours,  had  gray,  wandering  eyes,  a  countenance  very 
difficult  exactly  to  decipher,  with  something  about  it  chang 
ing,  slippery,  and  evasive,  reminding  one  of  a  serpent  under 
dry  leaves.  Added  to  which,  he  had  an  abrupt  voice ;  arid 
was  hard  to  live  with  at  home. 

On  wet  Sundays  our  shoemaker  would  study  an  old 
book  of  the  year  1600,  full  of  formulas,  semi-magical,  semi- 
medical.  Albertus  Magnus  had  contributed  more  to  it 
than  Esculapius.  Spectacles  on  nose,  he  would  rapidly 
turn  it  over,  then  meditate  in  a  way  that  brought  him  the 
reputation  of  mec/e*  One  day  this  neighbour,  to-morrow 
that,  would  come  at  nightfall,  to  ask  for  some  specific,  now 
for  the  cow,  now  for  the  wife ;  the  usual  fee  being  a 
sausage,  or,  better  still,  a  bottle  of  wine  drunk  at  the 
village  tavern. 

You  should  have  heard  the  marvellous  stories  our  man 
made  them  swallow.  Of  young  fellows  well  thrashed,  rifle 
shots,  broken  teeth,  balls  in  the  very  centre  of  the  white 
— it  was  all  one  to  him  !  Then  came  mysterious  stories 
of  cattle  bewitched,  girls  who  had  drunk  love-potions, 
*  Something  less  than  magician  and  more  than  doctor. 


98  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

while  the  peasants  gazed    at   him    open-mouthed.      "Eh, 
he 's  a  wise  one,  he  is  ! "  and  they  nodded  significantly. 

It  must  be  owned  that  if  our  friend  was  not  exactly  u 
sorcerer,  he  had  at  least  a  singular  aptitude  for  work  of 
various  kinds  ;  farmer,  carpenter,  blacksmith,  rifleman — at 
need  he  was  one  and  all  of  these.  "  He  has  some  charm," 
his  neighbours  would  say. 

The  shoemaker  let  them  say  on,  and  laughed  a  silent 
sort  of  laugh,  which  did  not  brighten  his  impenetrable 
face. 

He  made  a  great  deal  of  money;  yet  had  nothing,  cr 
next  to  nothing  laid  by,  for  it  was  spent  as  fast  as  it  came 
in.  This,  he  averred,  was  all  his  wife's  fault.  No  order, 
no  comfort,  no  foresight — a  gawky  slattern  !  He  did  not 
scruple  to  tell  her  this,  and  the  poor,  weak  creature,  sure 
to  excite  her  master's  anger  every  time  he  chanced  to  see 
her,  had,  over  and  above  an  indisputable  natural  gift  of 
stupidity,  all  the  awkwardness  that  arises  from  constant 
fault-finding. 

She  lived  in  a  hostile  atmosphere,  her  husband  ridicul 
ing  whenever  he  did  not  revile  her.  Her  gait  was  uncer 
tain,  she  was  incoherent,  her  mind  always  clouded  by  the 
fear  of  doing  wrong ;  her  hands  often  trembling,  though 
she  was  in  the  prime  of  life ;  her  glance  vacillating,  too, 
but  it  was  only  constant  fear  which  prevented  it  being 
st  raightf orward. 

Her  home — had  she  indeed  a  home  1  She  had  never  in 
her  life  said,  my  kitchen,  my  bed  !  Her  house  was  always 
dirty  and  disorderly ;  not  that  she  did  not  sweep  and 
brush,  especially  in  the  first  years  of  her  married  life,  but 
she  had  no  faculty,  none  of  that  calm  necessary  to  sys 
tematic  working.  Her  thoughts,  all  incomplete,  whirled 
round  in  her  head  as  if  driven  by  the  wind.  As  years 


A  POOH  nor.  99 

increased,  her  activity  grew  le.'.'s ;  not  because  she  was 
gaming  habits  of  reflection,  but  becoming  more  and  more 
dispirited. 

Without  having  thought  the  matter  out,  she  had  a  va^ue 
sense  that  the  less  her  husband  saw  her,  the  more  peace 
she  had ;  so  she  bestirred  herself  as  little  as  she  possibly 
could. 

In  the  morning,  she  would  drag  herself  to  the  well  in  an 
old  cap,  an  old  jacket,  an  old  petticoat ;  having  drawn  up 
her  bucket  full,  she  would  languidly  wash  her  potatoes,  go 
in  again,  put  the  dinner  on  the  fire,  and,  with  inefficient 
hand,  brush  the  kitchen  a  little. 

As  soon  as  she  heard  the  master's  voice,  she  spilled  the 
water,  let  fall  the  broom,  and  the  moment  her  work  was 
over,  would  sit  squatting  on  the  hearthstone,  and  remain 
there,  in  the  darkest  corner,  for  hours  together. 

In  the  adjoining  room  sat  the  master  amidst  his  hides, 
drawing  thread  after  thread,  and,  under  his  spectacles, 
casting  an  evil  eye  at  her  if  she  ever  ventured  across  the 
threshold.  She  did  so  as  little  as  possible.  Such  was 
their  domestic  life. 

A  son  was  growing  up  in  this  house. 

The  father,  a  great  reader,  pedantic,  and  pretentious, 
had  chosen  to  call  him  Ulysses.  Never  was  hapless  new 
comer  on  our  earth  saddled  with  a  more  palpable  misiuiiiw. 

The  shoemaker,  disappointed  in  his  wife,  buili  great 
hopes  upon  his  son  ;  he  would  be  tin.;,  that,  and  the  other  ; 
be  would  make  a  genthman  of  uiiu  '.  The  mother,  for  hoi- 
part,  made  him  in  her  own  likeness. 

As  a  mere  urchin,  he  had  a  dishevelled  head,  with  two 
round  prominent  eyes,  wandering,  colourless,  scared  like 
bis  mother's,  dubious  like  his  father's.  Beneath  was  the 
most  inconceivably  twisted  nose  ever  seen,  a  mouth  from 


100  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

car  to  ear,  the  whole  mounted  upon  two  interminable  bow- 
legs,  a  badly-made  body,  and  arms  whose  dexteiity  might 
alone  have  excused  their  length ;  but  had  they  been  short 
as  puffin's  wings,  they  could  not  have  been  more  awkward. 

Only,  whether  he  inherited  it  of  his  father,  or  owed  it 
to  a  certain  inherent  innocence,  Ulysses  did  everything 
with  an  imperturbable  assurance.  True,  he  did  everything 
ill,  but  he  did  it  with  good  heart.  If  he  took  up  a  mug, 
twice  out  of  five  times  he  would  break  it ;  if  he  moved  a 
chair,  he  let  it  fall ;  if  he  lit  the  fire,  he  blew  the  cinders 
into  the  porridge-pot ;  if  he  tried  to  feed  the  cow,  he  would 
infallibly  have  put  out  her  eye  with  his  fork,  but  that  the 
worthy  animal,  who  knew  him  from  a  child,  always  turned 
away  at  once.  Nothing  daunted  him,  however,  and  when 
his  father,  who  hesitated  to  acknowledge  inherent  inveterate 
awkwardness  in  his  son,  would  storm  and  discharge,  out  of 
his  workshop,  double  and  triple  volleys  of  epithets  by  no 
means  select,  Ulysses  would  look  at  him  in  amazement, 
shuffle  his  feet,  shrug  his  shoulders,  in  a  way  all  his  own, 
and  break  out  into  an  imbecile  horse-laugh. 

At  school  he  fared  no  better.  "  II  se  cotte"  said  the 
master,  from  the  verb  cotter,  to  shut,  which  is  used  in  our 
district.  Ulysses,  whose  mind  remained  almost  impervious 
to  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  was  more  than  ever  shut  up 
when  it  came  to  syllables ;  while  between  syllables  and 
words  yawned  a  quite  impassable  abyss. 

It  was  all  the  same  with  arithmetic.  Ulysses  knew,  in 
deed,  that,  in  point  of  fact,  one  apple  and  two  apples  make 
three  apples ;  that  when  the  innkeeper's  son  took  two, 
he  had  only  one  left ;  but  this  transaction  translated  into 
figures  left  him  stunned  and  stupified.  He  would  contem 
plate  with  his  unquiet  eyes  the  white  symbols  on  the  black 
board,  crush  the  chalk  between  his  fingers,  and  then  pass 


A  POOR  BOY.  101 

tliein  aver  his  face,  till  the  whole  school  burst  out  laughing, 
and  the  master  put  him  behind  the  door,  and  made  him 
kneel  there. 

His  best  Sundays  were  spent  in  the  wood-hole.  For  as 
to  the  Catechism,  as  to  those  dry  and  exceedingly  abstract 
answers  that  have  to  be  gone  through  without  a  single 
stumble,  Ulysses  never  got  beyond  the  first  half  of  the  first 
sentence.  It  is  but  just,  however,  to  state,  that  he  repeated 
it  five  times,  ten  times,  that  he  would  have  repeated  it 
twenty  or  thirty  irremissibly  chained  to  the  same  place,  if 
the  master  had  not  administered  a  back-hander  that  broke 
the  spell. 

His  father  would  say,  "  It  will  all  come  right  by  and  by ; 
he 's  not  stupid,  take  my  word  for  it." 

What  with  the  great  ruler  of  the  schoolmaster,  a  square 
ruler  falling  sometimes  on  the  fingers,  sometimes  on  the 
back ;  and  what  with  the  cuffs,  varied  with  kicks,  bestowed 
on  him  by  his  father,  Ulysses  grew  indeed, — but  it  did  not 
come  right. 

He  remained  where  he  was,  borne, — knowing,  parrot- 
fashion,  the  little  he  did  know,  not  malignant,  self-com 
placent,  trusting,  turning  up  his  twisted  nose  with  the  air 
of  a  youth  who,  if  he  would,  could  afford  to  make  fun  of 
all  the  rest  of  the  world. 

A  horrible  suspicion  now  began  to  dawn  upon  his  father's 
mind,  that  of  his  son  being  a  simpleton.  He  resisted  it, 
however,  at  first  through  pride,  then  through  a  species  of 
instinctive  affection  little  higher  than  that  of  the  animals. 
He  knew  himself,  knew  that  from  the  very  moment  when 
he  lost  all  hopes  of  Ulysses,  he  should  begin  to  hate  him. 
This  thought  was  painful ;  he  clung  might  and  main  to  his 
illusion  ;  only  he  began  to  look  more  than  ever  askance  at 
his  wifa 


102  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

The  poor  mother  for  her  part  would  gladly  have  loved 
her  son.  Alas  !  the  proper  spring  was  broken  ;  when  he 
was  beaten,  she  only  suffered  with  a  passive  suffering  which 
never  led  Ler  to  take  his  part, — that  was  all.  While  his 
father  was  still  in  doubt  upon  the  subject,  the  stupidity  of 
Ulysses  was  a  settled  point  with  his  little  playfellows. 
They  made  fun  of  him ;  they  turned  him  round  their  fingers, 
without,  however,  teasing  him  too  much,  because  he  gave 
in  to  all  so  good  naturedly.  The  more  they  bantered  him, 
the  better  he  was  pleased ;  he  believed  everything  with 
marvellous  credulity ;  always  good-humoured ;  laughing 
with  those  who  laughed  at  him.  As  to  ill-luck,  he  took 
it  as  it  came,  and  good  luck  too.  There  was  no  thorough 
holiday  without  Ulysses.  He  was  summoned  and  put  at 
the  head  of  the  troop,  supported  by  two  sharp  urchins,  who 
played  him  fine  tricks.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  delight ; 
he  thought  himself  the  sharpest,  the  most  dexterous  of  the 
whole  party  ;  thought  himself  handsome,  smart, — whatever 
they  chosa  There  was  nothing  hostile  about  his  vanity. 
It  did  not  spring  from  self-love,  but  from  unlimited  trust,  un 
fathomable  innocence,  innate  ingenuousness,  proof  against 
die  most  sobering  experiences.  Tricked  yesterday,  Ulysses 
bore  no  malice  ;  he  was  ready  to  be  tricked  again  to-morrow. 
And  what  tricks  the  boys  and  girls  used  to  play  him  in 
the  court-yard  of  the  old  manor  !  How  they  used  to  luu-h 
at  him  !  Happy  days,  proud  days  for  Ulysses.  It  was  a 
sight  to  see  him  when  he  came  in  perched  on  those  long 
stilts  of  his,  making  a  leg,  and  returning  an  imbecile  laugh 
to  the  hoots  and  roars  that  welcomed  him. 

"  Come  hero  and  try,  Ulysses  ;  come  and  try ;  we  want 


you  !' 


Ulysses  came  forward. 

"  Yon  are  the  only  one  to  do  this  well.1 


A  POOR  BOY  103 

They  were  playing  at  the  pyramid.  Ulysses  was  IK  listed 
ipon  the  shoulders  of  two  vagabonds, — rocked,  shaken  by 
them,  while  they  called  out,  "Take  care  !  stand  steady  I" 
till,  after  incredible  efforts  to  maintain  his  equilibrium,  he 
fell  like  a  lump  of  lead,  rubbed  his  knees  and  elbows,  then 
looked  at  the  rogues,  who  were  in  convulsions  of  laughter, 
and  only  said,  "  Ah,  very  well,  if  I  had  liked  !" 

Or  else  a  piece  of  money  was  thrown  into  a  budcst  of 
water :  "  Pick  it  up,  Ulysses ;  you  are  the  one  to  do  it  ; 
we  can't,  any  of  us.  Look,  that 's  the  way,  with  the  teeth 
— so— open  your  eyes,  shut  your  nose  and  ears." 

Ulysses  would  plunge  boldly,  then,  somewhat  dashed  by 
the  cold  water,  he  would  jump  about,  sneezing,  shaking  his> 
head,  wstting  all  the  curious  standers-by,  but  quite  ready 
to  return  to  the  charge  a  hundred  times  if  they  liked. 

Or  else  it  was  the  race.  He  who  never  saw  Ulysses 
run  on  those  great  dislocated  legs  of  his,  with  neck  out 
stretched  and  paddling  arms,  may  be  said  to  have  seen 
nothing ! 

Then  they  called  out  to  him,  "  Ulysses,  go  and  kiss  the 
prettiest  girl."  Straightway  Ulysses  went ;  a  general  flight, 
a  very  hail  of  scratches  !  Ulysses  was  persevering ;  he 
did  not  rnind  jeers,  he  was  used  to  them ;  he  would  have 
run  on  for  three  hours — feeling  sure  to  succeed  at  last,  if 
some  one  had  not  stopped  him. 

There  was  mischief  enough  among  these  village  lads,  but 
no  malignity.  Ulysses  was  not  any  one's  friend,  indeed, 
but  no  one  would  deliberately  have  hurt  him.  He  got 
plenty  of  cuffs,  it  is  true,  and  they  risked  his  bones  with 
out  much  scruple  ;  but  he  himself  did  not  take  much  care 
of  them.  Indeed,  but  for  a  certain  obtuseness  which 
rendered  him  half-witted,  Ulysses  hr  )  in  him  the  making 
of  a  hero,— indifference  to  pain  xirfect  self-reliance. 


104  TEE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

indefatigable  perseverance ;  that  simple  resolution  which 
marches  straight  forward  through  fire  and  water  to  it  a 
goal. 

Poor  Utysses  !  he  was  very  happy  on  these  fine  Sundays, 
these  gay  day«  of  childhood,  in  that  fine  court-yard  ;  always 
a  prominent  person,  and  even  if  not,  leaping,  playing  away, 
animated  by  the  same  spirit  as  all  the  rest. 

Sometimes  in  July  there  would  come  from  the  mountain 
a  burst  of  the  wind  we  call  "  Joran,"  sweeping  the  ground, 
making  the  leaves  waltz  wildly,  twisting  the  trees  in  the 
orchard,  strewing  the  fields  with  green  apples.  What 
spoils,  what  plunder !  And  while  one  gathered  and 
munched,  and  exulted  with  flying  hair  in  the  violence  of 
the  storm — in  anything  out  of  the  common  way,  the  hurri 
cane  bent  the  immense  branches  of  the  planes,  which 
shewed  the  white  lining  of  their  leaves  as  they  flung 
themselves  about;  and  the  court  resounded  with  wild 
clamours. 

In  June  again,  when  the  cows  were  leaving  for  the 
mountain,  there  was  a  very  different  scene. 

One  heard  the  cattle  from  a  great  distance  ;  heard  them 
coming  along  the  paths  and  roads  all  round  the  enclosure. 
The  ringing  of  the  toupins*  with  their  solemn  tones ;  the 
silver  bells,  the  loud  yolees  of  the  shepherd ;  their  prolonged 
cries  spread  through  the  air,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer 
still.  The  little  boys  rush  to  the  entrance  of  the  village, 
group  themselves  around  the  public-house,  where  the 
drovers  halt  to  drink  a  drop  or  two,  and  get  up  their 

*  A  large  bell  of  the  shape  of  a  reversed  tulip.  There  are  about  ten 
of  them  fur  every  herd  of  one  hundred  cows.  They  are  hung  to  their 
necks,  both  iu  ascending  and  descending  the  mountain  ;  then  taken 
oft',  and  arranged  along  one  of  the  beams  of  the  "  chdlet."  If  some 
foolish  practical  joker  sets  them  ringing,  all  the  herd  take  their  way 
to  the  lniii. 


A  POOR  BOY.  103 

strength,  for  night  is  coming  on,  and  it  is  no  joke  to  climb 
the  mountain  at  midnight  with  from  sixty  to  a  hundred 
cows  at  one's  heels. 

While  the  drovers  drink,  the  lads  take  charge  of  the  herd : 
"  Ulysses,  the  great  whip  is  for  you ;  you  shall  hold  the  bull." 

And  Ulysses  went  to  do  so  without  the  least  fear. 

Here  they  come  1  here  they  come  !  the  handsomest  cow 
first,  with  her  large  nosegay  on  her  head,  her  bell  round 
her  neck,  suspended  to  the  leathern  collar,  with  antique 
embroidery,  and  the  escutcheon  of  the  Canton:  Liberte  ! 
patrie !  She  would  die,  the  beautiful  cow — this  has 
happened  before  now — she  would  die  if  the  drovers  were 
to  take  away  her  nosegay  and  her  necklace  to  give  them  to 
any  other  !  Just  look  at  her,  how  she  advances,  proud  and 
stately,  with  heavy  measured  steps. 

Here  are  the  drovers,  grave,  fine-looking  fellows.  They 
have  left  the  valley,  left  their  homes ;  they  pined  for  the 
mountains,  the  upper  pastures,  the  long  twilights,  the  wide 
view  over  the  low  country  and  the  Alps ;  they  languished 
for  the  free  life,  the  long  distances,  the  cheeses,  and  things 
in  general  up  there. 

There  are  the  scanty  household  goods  in  a  cart,  a  caldron 
in  the  middle.  All  the  cattle  follow, — white,  black,  red, 
brindled.  As  for  the  goats,  they  went  first;  they  have 
been  for  some  days  on  the  mountain. 

The  boys  cluster  round  with  knowing  countenance,  and, 
while  the  drovers  refresh  themselves  at  the  tavern,  they 
yole  in  their  turn,  tutor,  worry  the  cattle,  till  one  or  the 
other  of  the  cowherds  standing  at  the  door,  roars  out — 
"  V/ill  you  leave  them  alone,  then  ?  Do  you  want  me  down 
upon  you?"  Ulysses  did  not  escape  a  few  pushes  and 
pokes,  but  that  wa  >  nothing  ;  he  returned  proud  and  happy, 
hmiing  up  his  nose  with  a  victorious  air. 


106  TIIX  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

His  father,  seeing  him  in  this  mood,  took  courage  again, 

And  then  autumn  !  true  season  of  junketing  !  no  school ! 
fruit  everywhere  ! 

There  are  in  September  golden  days  such  as  no  other 
month  brings.  The  sun  is  pale  ;  heavy  morning  dews  have 
made  the  grass  green  again ;  it  is  newly  mown.  There  arc- 
hardly  any  flowers  left,  except  the  pale  crocus,  but  you 
can  walk  freely  through  the  fields  in  every  direction.  No 
standing  crops,  no  hemp,  hay,  or  lucerne ;  the  eye  glides 
over  the  green  expanse,  can  take  in  all  the  country.  The 
air  is  subtle ;  amber  rays  shine  through  the  boughs ;  the 
foliage,  not  yet  tinged  with  red,  has  something  more  deli 
cate  about  it ;  less  density ;  one  would  say  that  all  nature 
was  idealised.  A  few  gnats,  born  yesterday,  to  die  to 
morrow,  are  executing  in  the  ethereal  atmosphere  a  dance, 
the  undulations  of  which  are  full  of  mystery.  At  the  foot 
of  the  apple  and  the  pear-trees  are  heaps  of  red  and  white 
apples,  and  pears  of  golden  hue. 

Then  it  was  that  Ulysses  feasted.  His  father  had  neither 
fields  nor  orchard ;  but  his  companions  were  there ;  they 
reached  him  apples, — a  little  worm-eaten,  perhaps,  but  lie 
did  not  look  too  closely. 

Then  came  October.  The  cows  descended  in  the  order 
they  had  gone  up.  The  warm  nights  during  which  they 
had  climbed  the  mountain,  when  the  moon  shone  bright, 
when  the  cytisus,  together  with  roses  and  tulips,  blossomed 
on  their  horned  heads  ;  when  one  heard,  winding  at  various 
distances  through  the  gloom,  the  sound  of  bells,  ton  pins, 
and  yolees, — these  are  past.  Of  late,  especially  these  last 
few  days,  the  cows  have  been  cold  up  there,  and  summer 
being  over,  have  had  but  scanty  fare  ;  and  now  they  spread 
over  the  fields,  twisting  off  great  mouthfuls  of  grass,  and 
sniffing  with  their  cool  muzzles  at  all  tempting  plants  ;  and 


A  POOR  BOY  107 

as  they  move  alon.j  from  one  to  the  other,  rubbing  against 
the  old  trees,  and  pensively  standing  still  to  lock  over  the 
hedge,  then  returning  to  graze  with  steady  step,  the  little 
bells  sound  and  re-sound.  The  great  ton  pins  have  been 
taken  off,  they  are  hung  up  till  next  season.  From  one 
horizon  to  the  other,  the  country  echoes  with  this  rustic 
music  ;  the  valley  answers  the  hill ;  in  the  best  concealed 
nooks  between  the  rocks,  at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  this 
ringing  is  heard,  giving  birth  to  wild  fragments  of  melody, 
all  their  discords  dying  away  in  the  misty  air;  drowned  in 
a  great  universal  harmony. 

It  is  then  that  boebes*  are  in  request.  Each  of  them 
for  a  five-franc  piece,  and  the  addition  of  a  pair  of  shoes, 
if  the  master  is  generous,  may  take  the  cattle  to  feed 
during  the  short  season  of  autumn.  One  constantly  meets 
in  all  the  roads  around,  a  cow,  two  or  three  cows,  a  few 
sheep  behind  them,  and  behind  the  sheep,  a  lad,  fair-haired, 
chubby,  bare-headed,  with  a  brother  or  sister,  younger 
than  himself,  running  after  him. 

In  the  fields,  a  fire  is  made  ;  a  beautiful  bright  fire  which 
crackles,  smokes,  and  flames.  Some  underground  hiding- 
place  is  made  into  which  to  stuff  the  yellow  carrots  left  in 
the  field,  till  they  can  be  carried  off  on  the  morrow.  On 
the  very  tip-top  of  a  tree,  on  its  highest  branch,  a  pear  is 
descried,  juicy,  melting,  one  can  see  that  from  here. 

"  Ulysses  !  Ulysses  !  this  is  the  very  thing  for  you.  Up 
you  go,  my  boy  ! "  Ulysses  never  in  his  life  tried  to  climb 
anything  whatsoever  without  falling  fiat,  more  or  less 
bruised  ;  but  never  mind,  he  will  go  all  the  same.  "  Are 
you  afraid  1 " 

Ulysses  shrug j  his  shoulders,  makes  a  spring;  they  sup 
port-  him,  squeeze  him  against  the  tree,  lift  him,  push,  pro- 
*  A  little  boy,  from  the  German  Biibe. 


108  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

pel:  "Courage,  my  fine  fellow;  there  you  are!"  Then 
they  let  him  go  ;  he  is  on  his  back  on  the  ground,  his 
great  arms  and  great  legs  telegraphing  like  those  of  a  field- 
spider.  The  rest  are  rolling  in  the  grass  in  fits  of  laughter. 

But  for  all  this,  these  were  Ulysses'  good  days.  He  too, 
like  others,  had  a  joyous  childhood,  thickly  sown  with 
pleasant  memories.  For  him,  as  for  the  rest,  there  had 
been  sunshine,  apples,  merry  Sundays,  a  few  more  hard 
knocks,  and  all  the  rest.  As  for  ridicule,  he  did  not  see 
his  own  infirmity,  he  did  not  feel  it ;  as  for  his  father's 
brutalities,  he  had  never  known  him  different ;  as  for  the 
suffering  apathy  of  his  mother,  he  was  not  aware  of  it.  As 
he  grew  up,  as  she  got  weaker,  he  did  what  he  could  for 
her ;  he  carried  water,  split  wood.  She  used  to  say  to 
him,  "  You  are  a  pretty  fellow,  you  are."  He  believed  her : 
this  went  on  for  some  years. 

With  his  fifteenth  year  there  came  an  increase  of  awk 
wardness  ;  his  whole  life  took  a  new  turn.  His  ugh' ness 
grew  with  his  growth.  Ulysses  became  preternaturally 
tall,  clumsy,  and  backward. 

His  companions,  having  grown  older,  were  naughtier 
than  they  were,  and  dragged  him  into  worse  scrapes.  The 
schoolmaster  had  given  him  up  long  ago.  His  mother 
got  thinner  and  a  greater  nonentity  day  by  day.  His 
father  was  more  irritable,  more  hard,  a  savage  expression 
sometimes  passed  over  his  face  ;  never  a  word  of  affection, 
never  even  one  of  indifference ;  he  was  either  silent  or 
storming.  The  mother  had  not  sufficiently  the  habit  of 
taking  the  initiative  to  dream  of  consoling  her  son  ;  if  she 
had  so  dreamed,  she  lacked  the  energy  to  carry  it  out,  but 
the  very  idea  never  occurred  to  her. 

The  father  in  his  worksho/),  the  mother  in  the  kitchen, 
the  son  driven  from  pillar  to  post  by  great  volleys  of 


A  POOR  BOY.  109 

oaths— bullied  for  what  he  did,  because  he  did  it  ill ; 
bullied  for  what  he  did  not  do,  because  he  left  it  undone, 
• — such  was  their  domestic  life. 

Generally,  Ulysses  crouched  at  the  corner  of  the  hearth, 
near  his  mother,  his  knees  pushed  up  above  his  ears,  his 
hands  groping  for  some  brand  among  the  cinders. 

At  last  the  father  understood  clearly  that  he  had  for  his 
son  a  half-witted  creature,  below  the  average  standard, 
belo~w  the  inferior ;  a  son  who  knew  nothing,  who  would 
know  nothing,  who  w^as  good  for  nothing;  a  lad  that 
others  laughed  at,  and  had  a  right  to  laugh  at ;  a  booby, 
the  standing  joke  of  the  village, — his  son,  his  ! 

All  this  was  abrupt,  clear,  decisive.  The  thing  once 
proved,  the  blow  once  fallen,  with  a  change  of  feeling 
inexorable  as  a  fact,  the  father  began  to  detest  his  son. 
There  was  neither  remorse  nor  reaction.  As  he  was  the 
master,  he  tyrannised  over  him.  Henceforth,  the  only 
portion  of  Ulysses  was  work  beyond  his  strength,  poor 
and  scanty  food,  and  rude  blows  from  a  heavy  hand  upon 
every  occasion.  All  this  without  premeditation,  quite 
naturally  and  spontaneously. 

Ill  received,  ill  treated,  rebuffed  by  all,  except  such  com 
rades  as  made  him  subservient  to  their  sports,  Ulysses  lost 
much  of  his  innocent  confidence.  But  if  they  took  pains 
about  it,  the  village  lads  were  still  able  to  waken  in  him 
some  sparks  of  his  former  love  of  adventure.  Then  there 
were  exploits  that  served  for  the  diversion  of  long  winter 
evenings. 

Sometimes  they  would  take  him  to  the  public  house,  make 
him  tipsy,  then  egg  him  on  to  attack  some  good  boxer, 
who  left  him  half-dead ;  sometimes  they  persuaded  him  to 
go  by  night  and  sing  under  the  window  of  the  richest  girl 
in  the  place ;  the  father  of  the  lady,  who  was  not  to  1  re 


1 1 0  THE  NEA  R  HORIZONS. 

trifled  with,  would  throw  a  log  at  him,  the  brothers  would 
sally  forth — Ulysses  came  back  with  his  head  laid  open. 
At  other  times  they  would  get  him  into  some  scrapes  with 
the  messeliers  *  and  the  municipals ;  and,  when  the  mine 
was  sprung,  would  make  their  escape,  leaving  him  in  their 
hands.  The  official  wrath  fell  heavy  on  his  luckless  head, 
fine  after  fine  was  imposed,  the  shoemaker  wielded  his  ter 
rible  cudgel,  the  frightened  lad  would  go  and  hide  behind 
the  faggots  in  the  shed,  and  it  was  much  if  his  mother 
dared  to  keep  back  a  little  cold  soup  for  him. 

Then,  suddenly  as  the  truth  had  broken  on  his  father's 
mind,  there  dawned  a  ray  of  light  on  that  of  the  son.  A 
vague  consciousness  of  inferiority  came  over  him,  nothing 
very  positive,  indeed,  but  a  species  of  self-dissatisfaction,  a 
kind  of  apprehension  of  others.  A  confused  sense  of  his 
own  ugliness  awoke,  then  grew,  till  the  moment  when  he 
fully  comprehended  to  what  a  degree  he  was  misshapen, 
grotesque,  ugly,  with  an  inexorable,  absurd,  crushing,  hope 
less  ugliness. 

That  was  the  first  step,  others  soon  followed.  He  saw 
himself  awkward,  stupid,  more  stupid  even  than  he  Iras, 
It  seemed  that  sorrow  developed  his  mind,  that  a  soul  Was 
given  him  to  suffer  with.  He  saw  himself  repulsive,  des 
picable  ;  all  his  life  passed  before  him  like  a  bad  farce,  of 
which  he  had  been  the  clown. 

He  did  not  lose  himself  in  analysis  ;  but  the  tide  of  sad 
ness  went  on  rising,  and  submerged  him. 

He  became  gloomy,  unsociable;  he  would  glide  along 
the  houses,  escape  from  his  former  companions ;  and,  his 
task  done,  climb  to  his  garret,  throw  himself  on  his  pallet, 
swallowed  up  in  the  contemplation  of  his  misery. 

No  more  smiles,  no  more  confidence ;  an  immeasurable 
*  Rural  police. 


A  POOR  BOY.  Ill 

wretchedness  paralysed  Mm.  He  had  no  anger,  no  hatred 
against  any  one,  only  he  deeply  abhorred  himself. 

It  is  a  great  misfortune  to  discern  that  one  is  imprisoned 
in  ugliness  and  stupidity ;  to  feel  that  one  is  an  object  of 
disgust  to  others,  and  that  they  are  right.  It  is  a  suffer 
ing  akin  to  egotism,  and  often  leading  to  it.  Despised  by 
others,  one  takes  to  idolising  self;  in  default  of  noble 
t.'inotions,  one  falls  back  on  gross  pleasures. 

It  was  not  so,  however,  with  Ulysses. 

When  he  had  once  fully  understood  that  he  was  an  utter 
r.iilnre,  that  no  one  loved  him,  that  all  ridiculed  him,  that 
t  here  was  no  help  for  it ;  when  he  had  ascertained  his 
i imitations  on  every  side,  supremely  disgusted  with  himself, 
lie  began  to  droop,  as  his  mother  had  done,  but  with  fuller 
consciousness  of  what  he  was  and  how  he  suffered.  His 
sun  had  set  with  his  illusions.  A  cold  autumn  fog  had 
risen  ;  he  was,  as  it  were,  frozen  up. 

Formerly,  after  the  paternal  storms,  he  would  shake 
himself,  run  off  to  the  village,  come  in  for  fresh  blows 
there,  and  return  amused.  Now,  there  was  no  more  elas 
ticity,  no  incidents  ;  everything  had  foundered.  His  soli 
tary  days  succeeded  each  other  all  equally  unhappy.  He 
did  not  give  himself  up  to  despair  indeed ;  that  would 
have  implied  some  energy,  but  atrophy  set  in,  and  he 
rapidly  declined. 

His  father  was  only  irritated  by  his  growing  uselessness. 
Weakened  as  he  was,  Ulysses  became  still  more  awkward. 
The  axe  and  the  hoe,  put  into  his  hands  by  his  father,  were 
sure  to  slip  out  of  his  weak  grasp.  The  shoemaker's  bursts 
of  roge,  which  used  to  glide  harmlessly  over  his  son's  inert 
organism,  his  abusive  language  and  rough  treatment,  now 
told  indelibly  on  mind  and  body  alike.  He  did  not  ask 
affection  from  any  one ;  he  felt  no  claim  upon  any  kind- 


112  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

ness  whatsoever ;  it  never  entered  his  head  to  bespeak  his 
father's  compassion ;  but  he  was  dying  from  a  dearth  of  ali 
these. 

Sometimes,  when  the  anguish  was  too  great,  when  he 
could  not  make  head  against  it,  he  would  look  at  his 
mother.  It  seemed  as  though  help  ought  to  come  from 
her ;  not  that  he  had  courage  enough  to  speak  openly  to 
her ;  not  even  to  give  her  a  caress, — that  silent  language 
of  those  v?hose  lips  are  closed ;  but  still  a  secret  instinct 
told  him  to  look  for  comfort  there. 

His  mother,  on  her  part,  looked  at  him  with  surprise, 
She  plainly  saw  that  there  was  something  wrong;  that 
Ulysses  got  silent ;  that  sometimes  tears  gathered  in  his 
eyes  ;  that  he  was  very  pale,  and  could  hardly  walk  ;  that 
his  father's  rages  terrified  him,  him  who  used  to  mind  them 
so  little  ;  but  she  could  analyse  nothing  :  she  would  glance 
at  her  husband,  shrink  into  herself,  retreat  instinctively, 
and  murmur,  "  Must  have  patience,  my  lad  \  must  have 
patience." 

The  disease  increased.  His  father's  brutalities,  insuffi 
cient  food,  heart-sorrow,  soon  undermined  the  poor  body 
which  had  never  had  any  overplus  of  vitality.  At  night, 
fever  consumed  him ;  in  the  morning,  he  was  cold  as  death  : 
there  was  never  a  drop  of  wine  to  revive  him.  Neither 
mother  nor  son  could  have  had  courage  to  reach  a  hand  at 
meals  towards  the  shoemaker's  bottle.  Extensive  sores, 
that  livery  of  extreme  destitution,  came  to  finish  what 
atrophy  had  begun.  He  had  to  give  up  all  work.  His 
father  said  nothing ;  he  saw  that  his  son  was  ill,  and  got 
so  much  the  harder. 

Ulysses,  idle  through  necessity,  hardly  dared  to  creep 
down  twice  a  day  from  his  garret,  and  take  his  place  at 
meals.  After  getting  a  little  unstiffened  in  the  darkest 


A  POOR  BOY.  113 

comer  near  the  hearth,  he  would  dnig  himself  up  again. 
He  passed  whole  hours  motionless,  without  amusement, 
without  consolation ;  repelled  from  the  past  by  bitter 
memories,  from  the  future  by  vague  terrors ;  weak,  lan 
guid,  without  a  murmur  or  a  complaint ;  gazing,  lost  in  an 
imdefinable  reverie,  at  the  dull  daylight  which  shone 
through  his  dirty  window,  or  at  the  bare  walls  of  his 
wretched  attic.  No  one  in  the  village  perceived  that 
Ulysses  was  failing.  He  had  gradually  separated  himself 
from  all  the  young  people ;  they  got  into  the  habit  of 
leaving  him  alone ;  then,  when  he  was  no  more  seen  about, 
he  was  forgotten. 

He  had  done  as  the  wild  beasts  do, — he  had  gone  aparS 
to  die.  His  mother  watched  with  a  stupid  eye  the  pro 
gress  of  his  disease.  One  day,  when  his  father  was  out 
working,  she  went  up  to  Ulysses,  and  asked  him  in  a 
whisper  what  ailed  him. 

"  I  suffer,"  he  replied,  in  a  listless  voice. 

She  grew  uneasy,  drew  nearer;  her  son's  emaciation 
Lightened  her.  She  pushed  his  coarse  shirt  aside,  saw  his 
chest,  saw  the  ravages  the  sores  had  made,  gave  a  kind  of 
suppressed  moan ;  then  went  down,  brought  up  some  rags 
and  some  vinegar,  and  proceeded  to  dress  them.  Every 
day  she  secretly  did  this,  choosing  the  time  when  his 
father  was  at  the  public-house.  Her  hands  were  clumsy, 
her  treatment  was  wretched  enough ;  but  what  good  it  did 
"Jlysses  !  how  he  used  to  listen  for  her  furtive  step  upon 
the  wooden  stair ! 

About  the  same  time  the  pastor  and  the  family  at  the 
manor  chanced  to  inquire  where  Ulysses  was,  and  why  he 
was  never  to  be  met  with  about.  As  soon  as  he  was  known 
to  be  ill,  he  was  visited ;  not  with  much  hope,  however,  ol 
giving  him  any  pleasure,  of  getting  anything  out  of  him, 


114  THE  NEAR  110RJZOSS. 

or  conveying  anything  to  him, — his  \vas  such  a  dense 
Mature  !  Still  lie  was  ill,  he  must  be  attended  to  ;  he  had 
ii  soul,  it  might  need  consolation.  His  neglected  condition, 
his  disease  appalled  his  visitors.  All  manner  of  help 
arrived.  Ulysses  used  to  thank,  but  he  was  stupificd  and 
reserved.  There  was  no  getting  at  him  ;  he  was  conscious 
of  the  compassion  felt,  but  that  did  not  reconcile  him  to 
his  own  repulsive  individuality.  On  the  contrary,  uncon 
sciously  it  only  depressed  him  the  more.  Then  he  was 
spoken  to  of  God,  of  the  Saviour.  Ulysses  listened  very 
seriously  with  a  pensive  air,  as  if  amazed  at  these  new 
tidings ;  but  he  said  nothing.  Only,  when  those  who 
spoke  thus  to  him  knocked  at  his  garret,  he  used  to  rise 
with  a  spring  beyond  his  strength,  and  to  open  the  door 
for  them. 

This  went  on  some  time.  Then,  a  little  from  weariness 
of  talking,  as  it  were,  to  the  air,  a  little  from  a  sense  of 
human  helplessness,  recourse  was  had  to  God's  own  Book 
Without  well  knowing  what  he  could  make  out  of  it,  they 
tried  to  read  him  some  chapters  in  the  Gospels,  some  Psalms, 
the  history  of  the  patriarchs ;  above  all,  the  life  of  the  Lord 
Jesus.  They  did  not  comment  much;  just  two  or  three 
short,  simple  words ;  more  would  have  been  thrown  away. 
Insensibly  the  expression  of  Ulysses  lit  up ;  his  eyes 
brightened,  his  countenance  awoke ;  I  know  not  what 
intimate  content, — not  the  stupid  satisfaction  of  yore ;  no, 
but  something  humble,  reticent,  noble,  ay,  noble, — \v;is 
shed  over  his  pale  face.  Once  or  twice,  in  a  quiet  voice 
neither  bold  nor  timid,  he  put  some  questions  which 
amazed  his  visitors. 

This  went  on  progressing  like  the  dawning  light  of  day ; 
with  steady,  royal  step, — as  God  works  when  He  does  work. 
\To  clouds  rose ;  this  sun  never  stood  still.  No  doubt,  no 


A  POOR  BOY.  113 

fear,  very  little  difficulty.  The  gospel  in  its  fulness  pene 
trated  at  once  with  all  it  beauty,  its  power,  its  tenderness, 
into  this  heart,  disinherited  heretofore  of  happiness.  This 
heart  grew  radiant. 

Jesus  had  met  this  fainting  spirit  in  the  desert ;  He  had 
raised  this  poor  child  from  the  earth,  and  taken  him  intu 
His  arms.  Jesus  was  the  first  who  ever  loved  him.  Ac 
cordingly,  how  well  Ulysses  distinguished  His  voice  from 
all  others !  It  entered  his  inmost  soul,  and  he  followed 
Jesus.  To  dispute,  to  doubt  1  Ulysses  could  no  more  do 
so  than  could  Moses,  when,  standing  on  the  holy  mountain 
God  made  His  goodness  to  pass  before  him. 

Ulysses  had  listened,  believed  with  all  his  might,  with  his 
whole  being.  He  loved  unboundedly  that  Jesus  who  had 
called  him  by  his  name, — by  his  much-ridiculed  name, — 
and  had  said  to  him,  "  My  son,  give  me  thy  heart." 
There  was  about  his  faith  a  certain  spring-tide  innocence. 
One  saw  revive  and  blossom,  but  blossom  as  they  do  under 
the  Lord's  touch  only,  those  natural  gifts  of  trust  and  sim 
plicity  which  formerly  cast  an  unsteady  light  over  his  in 
complete  nature. 

Jesus  was  not  for  him  that  abstraction,  that  great  prophet 
that  God  dying  for  us  on  the  horizon  of  remotest  ages 
inhabiting  eternity;  nor  was  He  that  philosopher,  tha 
legislator  which  many  of  our  wisest  only  know  Him  as 
unconscious  that  they  do  not  know  Him  at  all. 

Jesus  was  his  Creator,  Jesus  was  his  Saviour.  He  died 
yesterday  upon  the  cross  in  horrible  suffering  for  him — him, 
a  scoundrel,  as  he  would  cry  out  in  his  strong  emotion. 

And  this  Jesus,  victorious,  sympathising,  his  friend, 
would  come  and  spend  long  hours  at  his  bide  in  his  garret. 
He  hardly  dared  to  say  anything,  or  said  very  little  to 
other  men,  but  to  Jesus  !  The  others  were  compassionate, 


116  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

were  kind,  worthy  people ;  Ulysses  was  not  worth  the  paing 
they  took  about  him ;  but  Jesus !  Jesus  who  had  hungered, 
who  had  been  cold  ;  Jesus  whom  they  insulted  throughout 
one  dark  i  ight  about  Easter  time  ;  Jesus  who  touched  the 
Jeper  with  His  own  hand ;  Jesus  was  his  brother  at  the 
same  time  that  He  was  his  God ;  he  was  quite  at  home 
with  Him. 

Ulysses  had  never  complained  much ;  now  he  did  not 
complain  at  all.  One  could  hardly  get  him  to  say  a  word 
about  his  sufferings.  He  had  received  the  Bible  promises 
with  the  trust  of  a  child  who  hears  his  father  speak.  He 
realised  them  all.  To  hope,  to  enter  the  paradise  of  light, 
to  see  his  God,  quench  his  thirst,  possess  inexpressible  bliss 
from  eternity  to  eternity,  this  was  all  one  and  the  same  thing 
to  him, — simple,  and  easy,  and,  as  it  were,  already  done. 

As  long  as  he  could  hold  up,  he  would  drag  about  his 
garret,  peaceful  and  pensive,  his  glance  fixed  elsewhere. 
"  I  am  soon  going,"  he  would  say,  and  then  he  would  sit 
upon  his  poor  pallet,  while  so  much  joy  lit  up  his  face,  the 
few  words  he  spoke  vibrated  so  strongly,  he  possessed  his 
Saviour  in  such  royal  guise,  that  one  felt  overcome  in  the 
presence  of  this  poor,  weak  creature ;  overcome  and  hum 
bled,  adoring  God  because  His  hand  was  there. 

Ulysses  was  in  great  haste  to  go,  but  he  was  not  impa 
tient  :  "  When  He  sees  it  fit,  He  will  come/'  he  was  wont 
to  say ;  or  else  in  village  parlance,  "  He  is  certain  sure  to 
come." 

His  father  never  saw  him  now ;  Ulysses  could  not  go 
down-stairs,  his  father  did  not  come  up.  Some  people, 
those  who  had  courage  enough,  would  turn  in  to  the  shoe 
maker  in  leaving  the  g.irret.  "  Your  son  is  very  ill"  No 
answer.  "  He.  is  very  patient !"  Nothing.  "  If  you  wero 
to"' A  cold,  dry  look  cut  the  speaker  short 


A  POOR  EOT.  117 

The  poor  mother  had  taken  to  loving  her  son  -with  all 
the  little  strength  she  had  left.  She  did  net  well  under- 
ntaiid  what  had  taken  place  in  him  ;  but  she  felt  a  craving 
to  see  and  to  hear  him.  When  he  spoke  of  God,  she 
listened  with  a  great  effort  to  understand  ;  when  he  prayed, 
she  knelt  down  beside  him.  She  crept  quietly  into  the 
illuminated  hemisphere  where  her  son  abode.  She  'received 
a  transmitted  joy ;  a  second-hand  happiness ;  reflected, 
indeed,  like  the  light  of  the  moon,  but  yet  coming  to  her 
from  God.  She  found  that  it  was  good  to  be  there ;  she 
felt  herself  more  at  ease ;  she  would  have  liked  things  to 
have  gone  on  always  thus.  But  the  poor  lad  had  suffered 
enough. 

One  night  he  cheerfully  embraced  his  mother,  and  said 
— "  Mother,  you  want  us  to  be  together  with  the  Lord  j 
you  must  believe  Him." 

"  Yes,"  answered  she,  looking  much  impressed. 

"  Tell  the  father  to  come  up." 

"  The  father  ! "  she  repeated  in  horror. 

"  Go  and  call  him,  mother." 

Ulysses  had  never  spoken  so  before.  She  went  away 
trembling ;  clung  to  the  bannister  in  going  down-stairs ; 
opened  the  door  of  the  kitchen,  then  that  of  the  next  room, 
and  remained  on  the  threshold.  She  stood  there  some 
moments,  not  daring  to  stir.  The  shoemaker  turned 
round. 

"  What  Js  the  row  now  ? "  he  thundered  out. 

"The  boy— Ulysses" 

"  What  about  him  1 " 

"  He  is  asking  for  you,  father." 

An  almost  imperceptible  shudder  shook  the  father's 
hand. 

"  I  have  no  time." 


118  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

His  wife,  scared,  turned  away.  While  she  was  closing 
the  door, 

"  To-morrow,"  he  added,  in  a  rough  voice. 

The  mother  went  up  again  quite  pleased. 

"Well,  mother?" 

"  He  has  said  To-morrow." 

"  To-morrow ! "  repeated  the  young  man,  with  a  singular 
bmile. 

They  were  a  long  time  together  after  that.  Ulysses 
spoke  more  to  his  mother  about  the  Lord  Jesus  than  he 
had  yet  done ;  then,  when  it  got  late,  said,  "  You  must  go 
down  now,  mother  ;  father  will  scold." 

His  mother  had  not  a  quick  intuition,  but  somethin.r 
vreighed  upon  her  heart ;  she  would  have  wished  to  remain  : 
but  her  husband  was  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  in 
the  room  below. 

"Go,  mother,"  said  Ulysses  in  the  same  grave  tone. 
He  turned  to  the  wall ;  she  looked  long  at  him,  left  the 
room,  listened  to  his  breathing,  she  did  not  know  why, 
then  went  down-stairs. 

That  night  the  angels  of  God  came  for  Lazarus.  He 
went  away  noiselessly,  humbly.  In  what  a  rapture  of  bliss, 
Eternity  will  tell  us. 

In  the  morning,  his  mother  went  up  anxiously  to  his 
attic.  She  was  surprised  to  see  him  lie  so  still ;  she  was 
surprised  at  the  great  stillness ;  herself,  she  could  not 
speak.  She  touched  him  with  her  finger ;  then,  with  a 
shriek  and  beside  herself,  she  rushed  down-stairs  into  her 
husband's  room,  and  standing  erect  before  him  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  with  uplifted  voice,  and  a  gesture  of  deso 
lation  almost  appalling — "  He  is  dead  !  "  she  cried. 

The  shoemaker  grew  pale,  then  coughed,  then  looked  at 
her  with  his  dull,  vacillating,  merciless  eye ;  looked  at  her 


A  POOR  BOY.  110 

till  she  bent  again  j  till  she  shrunk  within  herself ;  till, 
with  drooping  head,  and  unsteady  steps,  drawing  further 
and  further  back,  she  returned  to  the  kitchen,  to  the  corner 
of  the  hearth,  to  crouch  there  as  she  did  yesterday,  as  she 
did  a  year  ago,  as  she  will  to-morrow,  as  she  will  ten  years 
to  come,  as  she  will  so  long  as  she  lives, 


THE  GALLEY-SLATE. 

DO  not  know  why  this  particular  figure  should 
haunt  me  so,  but  it  is  one  which  constantly 
recurs.     I  will  sketch  it  here,  with  a  few  rapid 
touches. 

I  only  saw  the  man  twice. 

The  first  time  was  at  the  house  of  a  young  invalid  girl. 
She  lived  with  an  old  lady  who  filled,  I  think,  the  post  of 
inspector  at  the  Halle  aux  files*  The  two  women,  who 
were  in  no  way  related,  but  had  a  strong  bond  of  union, 
in  their  mutual  poverty,  occupied  a  very  humble  apartment, 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  Halle.  Their  rooms  were  on  the 
fourth  floor  of  a  very  small  and  crowded  house.  The  elder 
of  the  two  had  to  be  at  her  post  from  an  early  hour  of  the 
morning.  Euphemia,  the  younger — Phemie,  as  she  called 
herself — always  stayed  at  home.  From  the  first  day  of 
her  taking  up  her  abode  there,  she  had  never  gone  down 
the  stair.  She  was  not  able  to  do  so ;  her  limbs,  paralysed 
in  consequence  of  a  long  and  dreadful  illness,  refused  to 
support  her.  Her  frame  was  worn,  almost  distorted  by 
suffering,  but  her  face  was  still  young  and  fresh.  One 
hardly  noticed  its  insignificant  features ;  the  expression 
was  all.  It  was  gentle,  intelligent,  refined,  and  she  had  n 
gracefulness  of  diction,  a  charming  voice,  a  glance  so  inno 
cent,  and  yet  so  bright, — a  tout  ensemble,  in  short,  which 
made  the  hours  fly  while  one  listened  to  her  talk. 

She  spent  her  bng  days  alone.     By  way  of  solace,  t  she 
*  The  corn  market. 


THE  GALLEY-SLAVE.  121 

hud  always  some  embroidery  on  hand,  which  she  executed 
rapidly  and  well ;  and  for  company,  she  had  two  canaries, 
who  sung  cheerily  in  their  cage  behind  a  trellis  overgrown 
'.vith  nasturtiums,  very  green  in  July,  very  bare  in  late 
autumn,  when  Phemie  would  take  the  cage  in  and  garnish 
it  well  with  chickweed. 

Her  wants  were  few ;  in  the  morning  she  had  breakfast 
with  her  companion,  and  took  nothing  till  evening,  e-xcept 
a  glass  of  cold  water,  which  she  went  to  the  kitchen  to  get, 
dragging  herself  thither  with  some  difficulty  on  her  crutches. 
That  used  to  occupy  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  was  as 
good  as  a  walk,  she  used  to  say. 

The  room  she  occupied  was  light,  pretty,  exquisitely 
neat  and  clean,  with  its  bits  of  old  china  and  old  glass  on 
the  chest  of  drawers ;  its  white  curtains,  its  little  tokens 
of  an  elegant  poverty,  revealing  spirits  stronger  than  the 
pressure  of  circumstance. 

Euphemia  loved  God.  She  would  have  liked  to  work 
actively  for  Him.  He  only  permitted  her  to  suffer  and  to 
pray  ;  she  took  life  accordingly,  as  He  gave  it  her.  Only, 
\vhenever  a  corn-porter  came  up  to  the  little  room  on  busi 
ness,  Phemie  very  courageously,  with  that  delicate  tact  that 
.she  had,  that  simplicity  enlightened  by  natural  intelligence, 
entered  at  once  upon  serious  subjects,  and  would  hardly 
let  him  leave  without  speaking  a  few  good  words  to  him. 

Many  listened  to  her  silently,  not  caring  to  prolong  the 
conversation ;  while  others  spoke  freely,  nay,  would  even 
discuss  the  subject  with  her;  but  no  one  felt  himself 
jarred, — no  one  laughed,  and  some  of  them  returned. 

I  happened  to  know  Euphemia.  That  day,  when  I  went 
up  to  her  room,  I  did  not  find  her  alone.  She  was  sitting 
near  the  window,  its  light  being  softened  by  the  nastur 
tiums  iu  fu1!  flower.  She  was  embroidering  in  her  guiet 


122  THh  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

way,  with  a  cheerful  look  on  her  face.  She  greeted  me 
with  a  bend  of  the  head  and  a  smile,  with  that  modest 
ease  free  from  familiarity  as  from  awkwardness,  which 
certain  natures  brinp;  with  them  at  their  birth,  under  the 
thatched  roof  as  well  as  under  the  gilded. 

This  is  not  a  thing  to  be  acquired  :  one  has  it  or  has  it 
not.  If  one  has  it  not,  one  never  will  have  it.  Now, 
Euphemia  had  it ;  she  was  a  poor  girl  and  a  perfect  lady, 
but  her  manners  accorded  admirably  with  her  slender 
means.  Everything  was  in  excellent  keeping;  she  was 
the  right  person  in  the  right  place. 

There  are  some  people  whose  every  look  and  word  raise 
legions  of  incongruities,  which  attend  the  whole  course  of 
their  life.  Euphemia,  on  the  contrary,  was  one  of  those 
harmoniously  gifted  spirits,  on  whom  peace  ever  waits,— 
peace,  propriety,  ease,  and  fitness.  The  little  that  she  did 
was  well,  because  spontaneously,  done.  She  was  graceful 
in  appearance  and  manner;  never  embarrassed,  because 
simple  and  self-forgetful.  Infirm  as  she  was,  she  had  a 
thousand  little  methods  of  being  independent  of  help ;  all 
so  unobtrusive,  one  hardly  noticed  them, — they  seemed  in 
the  natural  course  of  tilings. 

That  morning  we  were  talking  of  this,  that,  and  the 
other,  when  a  slight  sound  made  me  tuni  my  head.  Then 
I  saw,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  a  tall  figure,  which 
surprised  me  a  good  deal.  I  looked  at  Phemie ;  she  was 
calm  as  usual.  The  n.  an,  very  tall,  as  I  have  said,  was 
seated  on  a  bench.  I  could  not  distinguish  his  features ; 
my  eyes  were  dazzled  with  the  light ;  and,  besides,  he  wa.s 
sittin"  in  a  dark  part  of  the  room  ;  but  he  was  in  a  sort  of 
Danfcsqne  position,  which  struck  me,  with  his  knees  raised, 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  face  resting  upon  his  clenched 
fists,  and  a  fixed  look  which  one  rather  felt  than  saw  Ho 


THE  GALLEY-SLAVE.  123 

did  n.»t  speak,  did  not  stir ;  he  was  absorbed,  either  listen 
ing  or  dreaming,  one  knew  not  which. 

Euphemia  did  not  seem  to  be  noticing  him.  I  did  as 
she  did,  or,  at  all  events,  J  tried  ;  but  in  my  own  despite, 
that  man's  presence,  which  she  hardly  seemed  aware  of, 
disquieted  me.  I  kept  thinking  of  him,  and  casting  from 
time  to  time  a  furtive  glance  in  his  direction.  There  he 
still  was,  always  in  exactly  the  same  position.  I  felt  ill  at 
ease ;  my  voice  shook  a  little,  Euphemia's  not  at  all.  She 
went  on  embroidering,  relating  some  incident  or  other  of 
her  own  short  past  history. 

"  Must  needs  tell  you ! "  she  cried,  with  an  animated 
gesture.  She  had  that  easy  diction  of  the  Parisians, — 
those  familiar  elisions  which  give  language  wings. 

"  Must  tell  you  what  happened  to  me  one  Sunday  when 
I  had  legs  of  my  own.  I  was  agile  then,  a  good  walker. 
We  lived  at  Auteuil, — not  rich,  you  know.  When  we  had 
to  go  to  Paris,  we  walked.  That  Sunday,  then,  a  fine 
summer  Sunday,  the  nightingales  were  singing,  I  had  been 
working  till  midnight.  Never  mind,  I  wanted  to  go  to 
church  to  hear  something  about  God.  I  look  at  the  sun, 
—nine  o'clock ;  I  am  late.  I  dress,  make  all  the  haste  I 
can,  run  rather  than  walk.  I  get  there  !  They  are  sing 
ing  the  hymn ;  I  seat  myself  on  the  first  empty  corner  I 
find,  close  to  the  door,  and — only  think  !  The  singing,  the 
cool  air,  the  shady  corner,  fatigue,  all  together, — I  fall 
asleep,  fast  asleep,  arid  sleep  as  I  had  not  done  for  a  v/hoio 
week  before ! 

"  That  was  wrong,  that  was,0  resumed  Euphemia,  shak 
ing  her  head  when  she  saw  me  smile. 

"  I  slept  half  an  hour,  I  slept  an  hour,  I  slept  two  hours, 
— the  whole  time  the  service  lasted.  I  was  wakened  by  a 
great  noise  ;  I  saw  every  one  standing  ii]>  ;  tlioy  were  just 


124  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

about  to  leave.  I  jumped  up  too,  confused,  blushing  foi 
shame,  ready  to  cry, — I  was  so  vexed  ! 

"  Then  there  was  a  pause  ;  and  then  came  the  minister's 
voice,  gravely  pronouncing  the  fipal  blessing  :  'Go  in  peace! 
and  the  grace  of  oil?'  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  love  of  God,  and 
the  fellowship  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  be  with  you  and  your 
families  /' 

''There  was  my  sermon,  and  a  beautiful  one  it  was.' 
And  so  I  felt  my  heart  leap  with  joy,  and  went  back  with 
these  words,  which  lasted  me  the  whole  week  through. 
Dear  me !  the  compassion  the  good  Lord  has  for  His  poor 
children  !" 

A  deep  sigh,  almost  like  a  hiss,  interrupted  Euphemia. 
I  started,  and  turned  abruptly  towards  the  bench.  The 
man  had  not  stirred,  only  more  of  his  face  was  hidden  by 
his  hands. 

Euphemia  looked  at  him  with  her  mild  glance. 

'•'  One  must  have  trust,  Monsieur  Victor,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  short  pause  ;  then  she  began  to  talk  again, 
just  as  her  canaries  sang,  with  ail  outburst  of  youth  and 
happiness ;  a  freedom  from  any  anxious  thought  for  the 
morrow,  of  which  we  lose  the  sweet  secret  after  our  twen 
tieth  summer. 

While  she  was  speaking,  the  man,  without  saying  a  word, 
rose  and  left  the  room. 

Euphemia's  countenance  changed  at  once,  and  she  grew 
very  grave. 

"  He  is  one  of  our  porters,"  she  said.  Then  seeing  that 
this  short  explanation  did  not  satisfy  me,  that  my  glance 
was  still  a  questioning  one,  she  went  on  with  some  little 
constraint. 

"  He  is  very  unhappy."     Then  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  what 


THE  GALLEY-SLAVE.  125 

she  was  going  to  say  rather  distressed  her  on  his  account, 
"He  has  been  at  the  galleys  !" 

I  shuddered  involuntarily. 

"  If  you  knew  all  he  suffers  !  Ill ;  no  peace ;  a  wild 
beast's  nature ;  fits  of  fury  which  rise  like  flames, — less 
now  than  formerly,  though  !  Then  the  strength  of  a  bull ; 
iron  hands  !  Ill  as  he  is,  he  can  still  bend  a  sovereign  with 
his  fingers  !  He  was  young,  he  was  jealous ;  there  was  a 
woman  that  he  loved.  In  one  of  his  mad  rages  he  bit  her 
breast  so  ferociously,  that  she  died  of  it.  He  was  ten  years 
down  there;  now  he  is  weary  of  life.  He  does  not  want 
for  work  ;  he  is  steady,  but  he  is  consumed  with  remorse 
and  shame ; — he  is  afraid  of  God.  Yet  he  comes  here ; 
I  speak  a  little  to  him  ;  he  never  answers,  or  hardly, — he 
is  so  timid  !  but  he  always  comes  back." 

That  was  my  first  meeting  with  this  man. 

My  second  was  at  his  own  house. 

His  illness  had  rapidly  increased;  he  could  no  longer 
work.  Euphemia  sent  to  tell  me  so. 

He  lived  not  far  from  the  Halle,  in  a  very  mean-looking 
dwelling.  I  went  up ;  I  knocked,  A  hoarse  voice  bid  me 
enter ;  the  voice  was  his  mother's  ! 

The  room  was  large,  high,  but  squalid ;  with  bare  walls, 
their  plaster  very  much  stained,  dripping  with  damp,  and 
falling  off  here  and  there.  No  furniture,  no  chest,  of 
drawers,  no  wardrobe  ;  only  three  nearly  bottomless  chairs, 
on  one  of  which  sat  the  mother,  sewing  a  canvas  sack,  near 
the  window ;  on  the  other  lay  the  clothes  of  the  sick  man 
in  the  bed ;  the  third  was  unoccupied,  and  placed  beside 
him  :  it  was  there  that  I  seated  myself. 

The  window,  very  large,  filled  with  little  greenish  panes 
of  glass,  darkened  by  the  exhalations  from  within  and  the 


126  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

cold  without,  admitted  an  opaque  light, — no  blue  sky ; 
very  sad  to  see.  A  bit  of  looking-glass,  covered  with 
black  spots,,  was  fixed  to  the  wall  The  mother,  a  large, 
bony-faced  woman,  went  on  with  her  sewing  without  look 
ing  towards  me.  She  did  not  utter  a  word,  did  not  make 
any  gesture ;  but  I  felt  that  she  was  hostile  to  me.  She 
reminded  me  of  a  she-wolf  surprised  in  her  lair. 

Her  son  was  lying  on  his  pallet.  It  was  then  I  saw  his 
face,  that  face  that  I  cannot  forget.  It  was  a  long  face, 
with  hair  cut  very  short ;  a  high  forehead,  cheeks  closely 
shaven ;  a  straight  nose,  thin  lips, — the  upper  lip  very 
long;  an  uncertain  glance,  with  something  about  it  emi 
nently  hard,  and  at  the  same  time  scared ;  savage  and 
irresolute ;  energetic,  nay,  passionate,  and  yet  almost 
gentle. 

But  what  pervaded  and  prevailed  over  all  was  the  im 
press  of  an  intense  woe;  a  mixture  of  defiance  and  despair; 
a  barren  suffering;  sorrow  without  tenderness;  that  sin 
ister  impress  which  seems  to  belong  to  the  brow  of  fallen 
angels.  He  looked  straight  before  him,  neither  at  his 
mother  nor  me,  nor  the  wall,  nor  the  dust-laden  atmo 
sphere,  nor  at  anything  in  sight.  His  feverish  hands,  still 
strong  despite  disease,  kept  throwing  off  the  bed-clothes 
with  a  monotonous  gesture.  He  was  gasping  for  breath. 
His  mother  drew  her  needle  in  and  out,  (one  heard  the 
coarse  thread  pass  through  the  canvas,)  and  turned  her 
back  to  us. 

A  woman  like  that  might  indeed  love, — did  love,  no 
doubt;  but  with  a  savage  kind  of  undemonstrative  love, 
— the  love  of  a  lioness,  which  crushed,  not  comforted. 

He  was  going  down  alone, — going  down  gloomy  and 
despairing,  into  the  abyss.  To  annihilation  ?  to  judgment  ? 
He  did  not  know. 


THE  GALLEY-SLAVE.  127 

I  felt  a  boundless  pity.  Strange  to  say,  I  felt  a  sense  of 
humiliation  sink  into  the  very  depths  of  my  being.  This 
man  had  *  almost  murdered ;  even  in  dying  he  inspired 
terror ;  yet,  if  I  had  dared,  I  could  have  taken  him  into 
my  arms,  and  poured  out  all  my  heart  towards  him. 

I  did  so  to  God.  As  to  what  I  said,  I  really  do  not 
know.  My  heart  spoke,  my  tears  flowed  j  I  implored  him 
to  let  himself  be  saved. 

He  went  on,  looking  fixedly  away  in  silence.  At  last 
his  lips  quivered  a  little,  a  slight  flush  passed  over  his  face, 
and  when  I  rose,  he  reached  out  his  hand  to  me. 

"For  the  love  of  Jesus,  believe!"  It  was  a  cry  of 
anguish.  Following  an  irresistible  impulse,  I  fell  on  my 
knees  :  I  prayed  !  Did  he  pray  too  ?  I  believe  he  did. 

The  mother  said  nothing,  but  she  had  left  off  working ; 
and  when  at  a  later  hour,  when  it  had  grown  dark,  I  left 
her  son  asleep,  and  passed  her  on  my  way  out  of  the  room, 
.she  rose,  still  sullen,  but  less  hostile,  and  opened  the  dooi 
for  me. 

I  never  saw  the  galley-slave  again. 


THE  DOYECOT. 

is  not  what  you  think.  I  have  no  other  dovecot 
to  tell  of  than  a  poor  room ;  no  other  doves  than 
an  old  man  and  his  wife. 
I  was  reading  in  my  drawing-room,  in  Paris,  one  snowy 
evening  in  the  month  of  March,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  a  letter  was  handed  in  to  me.  Before  I  took  it  I 
knew  what  it  was — a  begging  letter  !  They  are  all  alike  ; 
the  same  paper,  the  same  handwriting,  the  same  smell  of 
poverty,  if  it  is  not  that  of  tobacco  or  of  brandy ! 

Are  we,  then,  indeed,  such  slaves  of  circumstance,  that 
mdio-ence  effaces  our  individual  characteristics?  You  have 

O 

been  rich,  you  have  been  fastidious,  you  have  had  your 
humours,  your  tastes,  your  originalities  ;  you  become  poor, 
they  all  get  faded,  flattened  ;  and  if  ever  you  are  compelled 
to  implore  the  charity  of  others,  you  too  will  dip  your  pen 
in  the  same  pale  ink.  Your  thoughts  will  follow  this  beaten 
track,  you  will  fold  your  missive  into  the  same  humble 
shape  ;  poor,  you  too  will  write  a  poor  man's  letter. 

The  letter  I  held  in  my  hand  smelt  neither  of  wine  nor 
of  cigars.  But  my  heart  seemed  withered ;  weary  of  the 
woes  of  others, — I  had  .seen  so  much  of  them  all  the  winter 
through;  and  much  imposition,  many  tricks  played  upon 
me,  gave  me  a  right,  so  I  thought  at  least,  to  take  refuge 
now  in  selfish  repose. 

For  a  moment  I  had  an  impulse  to  leave  the  letter  un 
opened,  to  send  it  back  still  sealed,  to  turn  round  and  go 


THE  DOVECOT.  129 

to  sleep  again.  I  did  not  do  so,  howe  eer  :  perhaps  because 
I  was  ashamed  of  myself,  perhaps  because  the  servant,  who 
was  standing  by  the  door  wraiting  my  answer,  mumbled 
something  that  sounded  like  "  They  are  there." 

I  signified  to  him  that  I  wished  to  be  alone  ;  then  tore 
open  the  envelope  and  read. 

The  envelope  contained  two  letters.  One,  the  begging 
letter  itself,  neatly  written,  like  many  others  I  had  received, 
with  certain  words,  God,  your  charity,  despair,  &c.,  in 
capital  letters,  with  many  nourishes,  denoting  a  decided 
talent  for  caligraphy.  There  was  nothing  else  to  distinguish 
it  from  the  rest  of  its  class.  It  described  extreme  destitu 
tion  ;  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  an  impress  of  sincerity,  some 
words  that  sounded  like  the  soul's  genuine  cry ;  expressions 
of  faith  which  denoted  a  Christian  spirit ;  but  I  had  seen 
so  much  of  this  carefully  calculated  simplicity,  my  ears 
were  so  weary  of  all  this  cold  fervour,  that  positively  I 
could  no  longer  distinguish  the  ring  of  the  true  metal  from 
that  of  the  false. 

And  this  is  one  of  the  trials  of  our  vocation,  we  who 
seek  to  do  a  little  good  in  the  world. 

The  other  letter  was  of  quite  a  different  stamp.  It  was 
a  letter  of  recommendation,  written  in  an  off-hand  style,  by 
a  wealthy  inhabitant  of  Lyons,  whom  I  knew,  and  who 
introduced  an  unfortunate  pair  to  my  notice — upholsterers, 
once  well  off,  people  of  long-standing  character,  who  had 
been  ruined  by  a  bad  investment.  Their  misfortunes  had 
brought  them  into  contact  with  him,  and,  while  assisting 
them  in  other  ways  as  much  as  he  could,  he  had  imparted 
to  them  liis  own  best  wealth— Christian  faith,  in  all  its 
simplicity  and  power.  This  poor  pair  believed  the  Bible, 
they  loved  each  other,  but  they  felt  it  intolerable  to 
live  17 pon  charity.  'ihere  was  no  opening  for  them  at 


130  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

Lyons ;  a  vision  of  Paris  had  risen  before  their  imagina 
tion  ;  from  that  moment  there  was  no  keeping  them  back. 
The  wife  would,  indeed,  have  remained  quiet,  she  retained 
fewer  illusions ;  not  so  the  husband.  Paris,  so  especially 
the  town  of  beautiful  furniture,  rich  hangings !  and  then 
he,  whose  taste  was  so  correct,  whose  hand  so  skilful ! 
Vvliy,  had  he  not,  some  twenty  years  ago,  furnished,  from 
cellar  to  roof,  the  archiepiscopal  palace  of  the  second  town 
in  France  1  Paris  !  why,  he  should  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  show  himself  there  ;  workshops  would  open  at  once, 
work  would  abound.  The  only  drawback  would  be  that 
lie  should  have  to  engage  twenty  workmen  at  least;  he 
was  sorry  for  that,  his  wife  might  find  them  troublesome. 
Nothing  could  stop  him,  neither  arguments  nor  facts  ;  they 
set  off  to  Paris.  This  letter  of  recommendation  to  me  was 
dated  three  months  back.  Three  months !  of  work  or 
penury — who  knew '? 

I  rushed  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  knew  at  once. 
There  they  both  were,  seated  on  a  bench,  dressed  in  old 
black  garments,  two  pale,  meagre  figures,  the  very  sight 
of  them  struck  to  one's  heart  with  something  of  remorse. 
The  husband  was  sixty  years  old,  the  wife  fifty,  but  she 
looked  more.  She  had  a  very  sweet  face,  shaded  by  nearly 
gray  hair,  clear  eyes,  the  only  remnant  of  youth,  a  con 
tented  mouth,  a  resigned,  thoroughly  calm  and  good  expres 
sion,  with  all  the  courage  of  perfect  openness.  But  gentle 
ness  and  modesty  were  the  prevailing  characteristics.  She 
drew  a  little  back,  with  an  air  of  suilering,  slightly  embar 
rassed,  but  by  no  means  awkwardly  shy. 

The  old  upholsterer,  her  husband,  resembled  her  in 
nothing.  He  was  a  little  man,  with  keen,  feverish  eyes, 
agitated  rather  than  active,  getting  up,  sitting  down,  with 
>i.  sort  of  distracted  air,  looking  every  moment  at  his  wife. 


THE  DOVECOT.  131 

lovingly,  but  with  an  anxious  love.  His  forehead  was  low, 
a  bush  of  white  hair,  a  narrow  head,  gave  him  an  appear 
ance  of  flightiness — and  he  was  flighty,  a  very  few  momenta 
shewed  it  plainly  enough. 

Misfortune  had  assigned  to  each  of  them  the  same  out 
ward  life  ;  but  peace  reigned  in  the  woman's  sweet  nature, 
while  the  poor  man  was  devoured  by  anxiety.  She  know 
the  Lord,  and  rested  upon  Him  •  he  knew  Jesus  too,  and 
kept  looking  in  every  other  possible  direction  for  aid. 

She  waited  patiently ;  he  exhausted  himself  in  barren 
efforts ;  she  let  the  past  be  past,  he  was  constantly  revert 
ing  to  it  with  a  bitterness  that  undermined  his  strength  ; 
she  loved  tenderly,  and  this  love  was  her  best  delight ;  he 
loved  passionately,  and  this  love  was  his  worst  suffering. 

Such  they  were.  For  three  whole  months  they  had  had 
disappointment  after  disappointment ;  no  work  anywhere. 

"  They  say  I  am  too  old,"  cried  the  poor  man.  "  They 
shut  the  door  upon  me ;  not  a  chair  to  stuff,  not  a  curtain 
to  hang !  and  I,  who  furnished  Monseigneur's  archiepisco- 
pal  palace  ! "  and  he  shook  his  head.  "  Look  at  my  arms, 
do  you  call  those  weak  arms — those  ? "  He  turned  up  his 
threadbare  sleeve.  "  Have  I  not  got  my  ten  fingers  still  1 
Beg  !  beg  !  beg  ! — There  is  no  help  for  it,  we  are  without 
bread  in  the  house  ! " 

He  sank  down  again  upon  the  bench.  His  wife  fixed  her 
beautiful  quiet  eyes  on  me,  a  tear  rising  in  them  the  while. 
She  placed  her  hand  upon  her  husband's.  "  God  will  not 
forsake  us/'  she  said,  and  these  few  simple  words,  spoken 
in  a  very  grave  and  very  gentle  voice,  made  me  involun 
tarily  think  of  that  meek  and  quiet  spirit  which  is  in  the 
sight  of  God  of  great  price. 

The  old  upholsterer  grew  calm  as  if  by  magic. 

"  It's  very  true,  though,"  he  said,  "we  are  still  happy." 


132  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

When  they  went  away,  the  husband,  contrary  to  custom, 
instinctively  took  his  wife's  arm,  and  leant  upon  it.  It 
was  evidently  a  habit  of  years  of  which  she  was  not  aware. 
Never  had  that  humble  heart,  that  innocent  nature,  sus 
pected  the  weakness  of  her  companion ;  never  had  she 
found  out  that  she  was  superior  to  him  in  every  respect — 
had  the  idea  ever  crossed  her,  she  would  have  detested  it, 
but  it  never  did  so.  Hers  was  not  that  modest  manner 
which  covers  a  haughty  mind,  that  submission  in  words 
and  gestures,  united  to  an  inflexible  will  which  will  creep 
towards  its  goal,  if  it  cannot  walk  thither  upright.  She 
never  said,  "  It  is  my  husband  that  wishes  ! "  Whatever 
he  did  wish,  she  was  at  once  honestly  ready  to  do.  If  the 
plan  seemed  to  her  a  bad  one,  she  said  so  openly  and 
gently,  for  she  had  an  opinion  of  her  own,  but  she  never 
insisted,  she  knew  when  to  stop ;  and  the  mischief  once 
done,  she  would  instinctively  and  unconsciously  sefc  about 
repairing  it.  She  cherished  her  husband  with  all  the 
strength  of  her  soul,  she  respected,  admired  him.  As  for 
him,  narrow-minded,  but  upright  in  heart,  impetuous, 
ardently  industrious,  indefatigable,  self-denying,  he  saw 
life,  other  people  and  himself,  everything,  indeed,  but  his 
wife,  invariably  on  the  dark  side. 

People  are  soon  lost  sight  of  in  Paris.  Our  worthy  pair 
having  been  relieved,  helped  on  as  far  as  I  could ;  others 
csme.  After  seeing  a  good  deal  of  them,  I  saw  them  less  ; 
two  months  passed,  they  never  applied  to  me.  I  forgot 
them,  then  all  at  once  they  recurred  to  my  mind,  and  I  set 
off  to  look  after  them. 

The  husband  was  the  only  one  at  home. 

One  glance  round  the  room  told  me  how  they  had  suf 
fered. 

It  had  nothing  left  but  what  was  quite  indispensable  ; 


THE  DOVECOT.  133 

an  iron  stove  on  tvhich  their  slender  meal  was  cooking ; 
little  white  curtains  to  the  window,  none  to  the  bed ;  no 
old  cracked  cups,  nor  old  gilded  glasses,  nor  framed  litho 
graphs  ;  everything  had  found  its  way  to  the  pawnbroker's. 

Only  the  cleanliness,  the  neatness,  the  pieces  of  old  cloth 
laid  down  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  upon  the  cold  brick  floor, 
revealed  a  woman's  presence. 

The  upholsterer  was  seated  ;  he  was  writing,  so  intent, 
so  absorbed,  that  at  first  he  did  not  hear  me.  The  next 
moment  he  raised  his  eyes.  He  jumped  up,  made  me  sit 
down ;  took  his  head  in  his  hands — it  was  his  habitual 
gesture — then  said,  in  an  agitated  voice — 

"  Worse  still !  worse  and  worse  !  Not  any  work !  not 
any  !  She  is  killing  herself  ! " 

He  took  up  his  wife's  sewing,  and  let  it  fall,  again. 

"  As  for  me,  I  am  idle  ;  she  feeds  me,  she  does.  I  don't 
know  which  way  to  turn.  Ask,  ask,  ask,  always  asking  ! " 
This  with  a  gesture  of  impatience  not  unmixed  with  bitter 
ness  ; — plainly  the  archiepiscopal  hangings  recurred  to  his 
mind : 

"  And,  by  way  of  finishing  stroke,  I  tease  her ;  yes,  I 
tease  her  !  I  ought  to  encourage  her,  I  discourage ;  I 
ought  to  strengthen  her,  I  weaken  ;  I  ought  to  let  myself 
be  consoled,  I  get  irritable.  She  has  faith,  she  has ;  well 
I  play  the  part  of  the  devil !  I  try  to  deprive  her  of  it. 
When  she  says  hope,  I  reply,  What 's  the  use  of  hoping  ? 
I  am  a  wicked,  useless  man ;  fit  for  nothing, — but  to  kill 
her  !" 

He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  then  went  on  :  "  At 
this  moment,  where  do  you  suppose  she  is  ]  at  the  pawn 
broker's.  She  has  taken  her  watch  there,  the  watch  I  gave 
her  on  our  wedding-day,  thirty  years  ago.  Do  you  know 
what  I  went  and  did?  I  said  no  end  of  hard  things  to  her. 


134  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

that  I  did.  She  looked  at  me,  she  embraced  me,  and  sat 
down  again.  I  said  to  her,  Go  !  like  a  brute  that  I  was ; 
and  she  went." 

When  he  had  recovered  a  little — • 

"And  so  !"  and  at  once  his  voice  took  almost  a  cheerful 
tone,  "  Look  here."  He  took  up  the  sheet  of  paper  he  had 
been  writing  on  when  I  came  in.  "  Look  here  !  I  do  my 
self  justice  at  least."  And  he  pointed  out  the  words  with 
an  intense  satisfaction,  "  That  will  please  her,  will  that." 

I  read,  "  My  dear  loij'e,  I  am  a  wretch  ;  my  dear  wife,  I 
am  a  wretch,"  and  so  on  in  text-hand,  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  page. 

"  If  I  know  anything  about  her,  I  do  not  think  that  will 
please  her,"  I  simply  replied.  He  looked  at  me  with  his 
small,  eagre  eye. 

"Tell  her  you  love  her;  that's  better." 

"  Love  her,  indeed  !"  cried  the  old  upholsterer,  in  great 
excitement.  "  That  woman !  that  wife  of  mine,  is  an 
angel !  She  is  my  life,  is  my  wife.  I  am  very  unlucky  ; 
we  are  cold  here."  His  glance  flitted  round  the  poor  bare 
room.  "  Sometimes  we  are  hungry,  but  for  all  that  there 
iire  moments,  ay,  there  are  hours  when  we  are  as  happy  as 
kings.  At  night,  we  go  to  bed  when  it  gets  dark.  Candles 
come  expensive  ;  there,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  alcove,  and 
the  curtainless  bed  ;  "  there,  when  we  kneel  down  together; 
there,  when  she  rests  her  head  on  my  shoulder ;  there,  look 
you,  I  am  so  happy  sometimes  I  think  my  heart  will  burst. 
Oil,  if  I  could  only  die  so  ! " 

"  And  your  wife  1 " 

He  uttered  a  cry,  "  There  it  is,  there  it  is  ;  selfish,  always 
selfish  !"  He  clasped,  or  rather  he  wrung  the  hands  he 
raised  to  hea.ven. 

I  could  have  fancied  I  heard  that  groan  from  the  heart 


THE  DOVECOT.  135 

of  St  Paul :  that  dv isolate  sigli  which  rises  out  of  the  deep 
places  of  every  human  soul,  "0  wretched  man  that  I  am  ! 
who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of  this  death  1 " 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened ;  it  was  the  wife  re 
turning.  She  saw  at  a  glance  the  look  of  distress  in  her 
husband's  face,  and  ran  to  him. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  "  I  have  given  you  pain.  We 
diall  get  it  back  ;  you  shall  hang  it  round  my  neck  again  ! " 
She  clasped  him  to  her  heart.  "  I  have  got  bread,  got  all 
we  wrant ;  let  us  trust  in  God,  in  Jesus ;  was  He  not 
hungry  once?" 

A  movement  on  my  part  announced  my  presence  ;  she 
stopped,  a  little  confused,  then  curtsied  to  me,  remained 
standing,  and  thanked  me  for  my  visit. 

The  old  upholsterer  who  had  but  few  ideas  of  his  own, 
held  those  few  fast.  At  the  first  pause,  he  took  up  his 
sheet  of  paper,  and  eyes  sparkling  with  delight,  handed  it 
over  to  his  wife.  She  read,  blushed  deeply,  went  to  the 
table,  wrote  a  few  rapid  words,  placed  the  page  under  her 
husband's  eyes,  then,  with  animated  gesture,  tore  the 
paper  into  fragments.  Later  I  knew  what  those  words 
had  been,  words  never  effaced  from  the  old  man's  heart. 
They  were  these :  "  My  husband,  I  am  thy  most  happy 
wife  and  thy  humble  servant." 

All  the  charity  in  the  world  never  yet  made  up  for 
work.  More  than  bread,  more  than  help  of  any  kind,  the 
old  upholsterer  craved  for  occupation,  craved  to  work  at 
his  trade. 

"  I  have  at  home  an  arm-chair  which  wants  covering,  a 
rery  handsome  one.  Could  you  repair  it  for  me  ?"  The 
old  man's  eyes  sparkled. 

"Will  you  come?" 


136  THE  XEA  U  110 1U. -IONS. 

"When  ?"  he  asked  with  a  trembling  voice. 

"  Why,  to-morrow ;  the  first  fine  day ;  whenever  it  suits 
you." 

"  And  I — I  may  bring  my  wife  ?" 

"  I  should  think  so  indeed," 

"  Because,  you  see,  she  is  a  better  hand  still  than  I  am/' 

<;  Oh  !''    put  in  the  wife,  with  a  sweet  smile. 

The  old  upholsterer's  face  lit  up  :  in  two  seconds  he 
grew  ten  years  younger ;  his  forehead  lost  its  wrinkles ; 
he  drew  himself  up  ;  his  chest  expanded ;  he  nibbed  his 
hands ;  what  the  sympathy  of  the  wife,  the  charity  of  the 
benevolent,  never  could  have-  done,  work — Ms  work  did. 
His  status  returned  ;  his  youth,  his  vigour,  his  prospects. 

He  ran  to  the  press,  opened  a  drawer,  examined  his  tools 
:>ne  by  one,  taking  up  this,  throwing  aside  that,  without 
being  any  longer  aware  of  my  presence.  His  wife's  expres 
sion  was  quite  heavenly ;  she  clasped  her  hands  tight,  and 
looked  at  me  without  saying  a  word. 

The  morrow  was  a  splendid  day  in  June. 

Paris  has  not  many  rural  retreats,  but  I  may  venture  t<? 
say  that,  on  that  particular  morning,  my  drawing-room, 
opening  out  on  my  garden,  about  sixty  feet  long  by 
eighteen,  had  something  so  springlike,  fresh,  and  balmy, 
that  it  made  one  dream  Idyls. 

A  bit  of  blue  sky,  a  bit  of  green  grass-plot ;  glycine  en 
tangled  in  the  trellis  that  covered  the  wall,  that  wall  very 
low,  with  other  gardens  all  around,  beautiful  rose-trees  in 
flower,  stands  of  geraniums  which  the  bees  were  pillaging 
with  busy  murmurs,  an  awning  that  softened  the  light, 
rustic  chairs,  a  table,  and  over  it  an  acacia  in  full  flower, 
from  which  each  breeze  that  blew  stole  white  perfumed 
petals  to  scatter  them  on  the  grass.  Such  was  my  garden, 
such  my  drawing-room.  A  poor  reminiscence  of  nature,  of 


THE  DOVECOT. 

those  mighty  joys  which  expand  your  heart  when  you  walk 
in  the  country ;  God's  great  works  arc/und  you,  full  of  liffl 
and  health,  in  sunshine  and  in  liberty. 

Happy  he  whose  eye  may,  from  dawn  to  twilight,  wander 
at  will  to  distant  horizons  !  Happy  he  who  sees  the  mea 
dows  grow  green  in  April  who  gathers  the  violet  in  the 
valley,  who,  with  his  own  hands,  alike  plants  and  reaps- ! 
Happy  he  who  breathes  the  free  fresh  air  of  the  country: 
to  whom  the  breeze  brings  in  through  the  open  window 
the  scent  of  the  lucerne  in  flower  !  Happy  he  who  works 
at  some  healthy  out-door  work,  whose  faculties,  continually 
reinvigorated,  apply  themselves  fully,  yet  not  feverishly,  to 
the  task  God  has  assigned  them,  and  who,  when  evening 
is  come,  returns  not  to  the  conventional  duties  of  conven 
tional  life,  but  to  the  sacred  pleasures  of  hearth  and  home. 

At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  there  was  a  ring  at  my 
bell.  The  old  couple  entered.  They  had  made  themselves 
smart;  their  worn,  thread-bare  garments  had  a  sort  of 
holiday  air ;  they  were  both  radiant.  The  worthy  man 
could  hardly  eat  his  breakfast,  he  was  in  such  a  hurry. 
T)i at  over,  he  set  to  work,  his  face  beaming.  He  had  on 
his  green  baize  apron  ;  his  mouth  was  full  of  pins,  and 
then  came  such  cutting,  measuring,  pulling,  fitting  ;  for  he 
\v:ss  hard  to  please,  and  began  again  twenty  times,  and  yet 
lie  was  so  alert  and  rapid,  had  such  a  correct  eye  and  expert 
h;iiul,  that  the  work  got  on  as  if  by  magic. 

His  wife  sewed,  attentive  to  his  directions,  silent,  he? 
breast  swelling  with  joy. 

My  great  anxiety  was  to.  get  them  to  eat  and  to  walk 
about ;  their  anxiety,  that  of  the  upholsterer  especially — • 
his  wife  understood  me  perfectly — was  to  work  ;  to  work 
on,  to  shew  his  skill,  to  shew  he  had  not  forgotten  his 
calling,  and  that  he  could  execute  a  masterpiece,  and  thai 


138  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

he  had  a  pair  of  hands  of  his  own  capable  of  maintain ir.rt 
his  wife  without  any  need  to  beg. 

It  was  all  I  could  do  to  get  him  away  from  that  unluck}> 
arm-chair,  and  to  make  him  take  an  hour's  rest  in  the 
garden  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  But  the  sun  flooded  the 
room  with  light,  the  bees  would  sometimes  wander  about 
it,  puffs  of  fragrance  came  wafting  in.  Then  the  uphol 
sterer  would  raise  his  head,  inhale  the  air,  say,  "  It  smell H 
sweet  here  ;"  and  set  to  work  harder  than  ever. 

That  did  not  matter;  he  was  happy  in  his  own  way, 
profoundly  happy.  He  exchanged  little  playful  words  wi; ' : 
his  wife ;  I  heard  them  laugh,  he  with  an  abrupt  chuckle, 
she  with  a  clear,  fresh  laugh. 

The  good  times  were  come  back  again,  he  was  making 
money,  he  should  make  more.  God  had  granted  his  wife's 
request ;  he,  too,  prayed  with  his  whole  heart,  but  as  for 
his  own  prayers,  he  held  them  cheap.  The  prayers  of  his 
wife,  oh,  these  would  mount  straight  to  heaven  ! 

When  evening  came,  I  was  called  in.  The  arm-chair 
was  finished ;  it  was  perfection  !  I  told  him  so ;  his  hands 
trembled  with  delight ;  he  was  a  different  man.  He  exa 
mined  his  work,  rather  proud,  not  too  much  so,  for  he  was 
accustomed  to  work  well ;  he  looked  well  to  do,  hopeful, 
he  was  calm  and  composed  for  the  first  time.  His  wife 
contemplated  him,  then  the  arm-chair,  then  me  ;  one  could 
see  that  she  was  returning  thanks  to  God.  It  was  she 
who  was  overcome  now;  happiness  moved  her  more  than 
sorrow  had  done. 

When  they  went,  away,  the  husband,  with  an  easy  gesture, 
offered  her  his  arm  ;  it  was  he  who  protected  her. 

Would  that  I  could  stop  here,  stop  at  this  fine  summer's 
day.  Alas  !  this  time  I  have  to  go  on  to  the  end. 


THE  DOVECOT.  139 

The  old  upholsterer  was  not  deceived ;  work  did  come 
in.  Not  very  abundantly,  but  steadily ;  enough  to  keep 
the  house,  enough  to  make  him  happy. 

When  I  left  Paris  in  July,  the  room  had  been  modestly 
refurnished  ;  there  was  a  pot  of  mignonette  in  the  window, 
two  canaries  singing  in  a  cage,  the  watch,  the  wedding  gift, 
hung  at  the  worthy  woman's  waist.  It  was  a  home,  an 
affection  that  might  well  inspire  envy ;  it  was  the  Dovecot. 

There  are  people  who  laugh  at  these  ancient  loves.  Not 
so  I.  I  pity  those  who  believe  that  there  blooms  one  short 
season  for  youthful  tenderness,  and  that,  this  season  over, 
the  time  to  love  is  past,  the  heart  withered,  and  nothing 
left  but  to  lead  a  prosaic  life,  without  fervour,  sunshine, 
shade,  or  mystery. 

We  were  two  lovers,  a  man,  a  woman ;  we  had  a  thou 
sand  delicacies  of  feeling  in  our  soul ;  all  the  shyness,  all 
the  fascination,  all  the  secret  ardour,  even  the  little  sorrows 
and  the  beautiful  tears  of  a  strong  affection.  Age  comes  ; 
we  become  mere  companions.  Two  boon  comrades,  good 
fellows,  heart  in  hand,  easy  tempered  through  indifference, 
equally  amused,  equally  wearied  with  what  remains  of  life, 
having  nothing  more  to  ask,  not  much  to  give,  without 
hope,  without  regret,  waiting  for  the  time  of  separation, 
and  when  it  comes,  quitting  each  other  with  great  com 
posure  ;  we,  who  had  loved  one  another  with  so  great  a 
love. 

Some  find  this  very  natural  and  supremely  wise ;  for  my 
part,  I  find  it  revolting,  and  the  dreariest  folly. 

I  left  Paris.     That  year  the  cholera  ravaged  it  cruelly. 

When  I  returned,  the  frozen  breath  of  December  was 
blowing  through  the  streets,  my  apartments  were  cold, 
uncomfortable  ;  I  had  a  good  deal  to  do  in  my  home. 


140  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

One  evening,  it  was  New  Year's  Eve,  my  door-bell  rang, 
the  old  upholsterer  was  asking  for  me.  Could  it  indeed 
be  he  that  I  saw  there  seated  on  the  bench,  in  the  same 
spot  as  last  year — alone,  bent,  with  haggard  eye  1  lie 
looked  at  me  fixedly. 

"  I  am  hungry,"  he  said,  in  a  hollow  voice.  "  That  '3 
why  I  am  come  to  trouble  you." 

My  mind  at  once  foreboded  some  terrible  misfortune 
that  I  did  not  dare  to  verify.  He  looked  at  me  again  ; 
saw  that  I  knew  nothing.  Then,  with  a  fearful  outburst — 

"  I  have  lost  my  wife  !"  he  cried.  "  I  have  lost  her,  lost 
her,  lost  her  !"  and  he  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

Then,  in  a  melancholy  voice,  he  began  to  repeat,  as  if  to 
himself,  the  tragic  story. 

It  was  very  simple.  In  the  thick  of  the  cholera,  the 
poor  woman  had  gone  out  to  make  a  few  purchases ;  on 
returning,  cholera  had  seized  her,  torn  her  to  pieces  in  the 
course  of  four  hours,  during  which  she  had  not  been  able 
to  say  anything  more  to  her  husband  than  a  '  Good-bye  !' 
murmured  out  through  her  tortures.  Her  hands  had  been 
constantly  clasped,  her  smile  in  dying  that  of  an  anjeL 

"  I  have  been  alone  ! — for  three  months  !  I  have  no 
thing,  I  am  nothing,  and  yet  I  live  ! — God  Almighty  has 
not  yet  had  the  charity  to  take  me  !" 

I  gently  placed  my  hand  on  his  arm,  as  his  wife  was 
wont  to  do  ;  he  shuddered  ;  and  while  he  went  on  talking, 
in  broken  sentences,  I  was  able  to  take  in,  one  by  one,  the 
ravages  his  immense  sorrow  had  made  in  this  poor  creature, 
weak  in  body,  weak  in  mind. 

He  was  ragged,  ui]  shaven,  untidy,  almost  dirty, — he  who 
used  to  be  so  rigidly  clean,  to  have  his  old  clothes  so  neatly 
put  on.  His  cheeks  were  thin  and  hanging,  his  eye  burn 
ing,  his  frame  shaken  by  a  constant  and  almost  convulsive 


THE  DOVECOT.  141 

shiver.  He  spoke  much  and  fast,  hardly  seemed  to  hear 
himself,  could  not  listen  to  me  at  all ;  went  on  with  his 
wail  like  the  wave  of  the  sea,  which  beats  again  and  again 
on  the  same  portion  of  the  shore.  If  I  struck  strongly  a 
religious  chord,  it  would,  indeed,  give  back  a  feeble  sound  j 
l)ii  t  this  rather  from  force  of  habit  than  its  own  proper 
vibration  ;  despair  had  swallowed  up  all 

"  I  don't  do  an}*  more  work ;  I  have  no  head  for  it,"  he 
said.  "I  keep  going,  I  walk,  I  go  errands  when  I  get 
them,  I  am  a  gone  man  ! — and  I  can't  die  /"  he  cried 
vehemently,  starting  up.  "  /  eat,  could  you  believe  that  / 
eat  ? — Yes,  I  am  mean  enough  to  eat  because  I  am  hungry. 
I  am  devoured  with  hunger." 

I  had  some  food,  some  broth  brought  in ;  he  would 
not  touch  them,  his  throat  was  closed ,  he  said  it  did 
him  good  to  talk,  good  to  weep,  that  was  enough  for 
him. 

Man  feels  his  littleness  before  the  sea  in  storm.  The 
consciousness  of  his  own  impotence  overwhelms  him.  He 
can  but  contemplate  the  everlasting  surge,  the  boundless 
horizon,  and  lend  a  meditative  ear  to  that  mighty  voice 
marching  on  the  waters.  There  is  another  ocean  which 
makes  him  feel  his  limitations  more  keenly  still — the 
infinite  of  woe !  some  one  of  those  fathomless  sorrows, 
with  no  earthly  hope,  which  feed  upon  themselves ;  some 
Promotheus  on  his  rock,  with  vitals  constantly  gnawed ; 
some  abyss  where  every  consolation,  every  aid,  is  swallowed 
up  at  once  and  disappears. 

I  did  not  tell  this  man  that  he  had  made  himself  an  idol, 
and  that  God  had  broken  it ;  I  did  not  tell  him  that  his 
wife  was  a  creature,  and  that  our  hearts  must  not  attach 
themselves  to  creatures ;  I  did  not  tell  him  that  the 
Christian  is  to  rejoice  when  God  has  made  him  weep  T 


i42  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

have  found  consolations  of  this  kind  in  the  books  of  men  j 
I  have  never  seen  such  in  the  book  of  God. 

Only,  in  a  voice  that  I  tried  hard  to  render  culm,  I 
gently  asked  Mm  whether  he  would,  at  this  very  hour, 
recall  her  from  the  heaven  where  she  was,  to  the  earth 
where  he  suffered. 

That  idea  struck  him.  "No,  no  !"  he  answered,  with  a 
burst  of  tenderness  and  tears.  • 

"Would  you  have  her  in  your  place,  you  in  hers?" 

"No,  no  !"  he  said,  in  almost  a  joyous  tone. 

"  The  Lord  loved  her  much/' 

He  repeated  '  loved  her  much'  several  times  ;  he  hugged 
the  words  to  his  heart ;  it  was  his  first  ray  of  light  :  lie 
loved  her  much  ! — that  reconciled  him  to  the  sovereign 
decree  of  his  God  :  He  loved  her  much  ! — that  idea  worked 
its  royal  luminous  way  through  his  soul.  Loved  her  much 
— much  !  The  poor  man  went  away  repeating  those  word.-1. 

That  evening  he  could  take  no  other  food. 

The  following  day  I  went  to  his  house.  Over  the  door 
one  saw  a  little  black  plate  with  white  letters,  "  Here  lie.s 
Benard,  ividower  I"  That  was  his  name, — widower  was 
written  in  immense  letters. 

My  heart  was  wrung.  Suffering  had  been  stronger  than 
this  man's  reason. 

On  entering,  I  stood  still  on  the  threshold.  Benard  was 
sitting  motionless  before  the  alcove,  which  he  looked  at 
fixedly.  The  bed  had  disappeared  ;  it  had  been  dragged 
into  a  corner  of  the  room.  It  was  unmade,  disorderly.  In 
the  alcove  rose  a  sort  of  catafalque,  extremely  finished  in 
all  its  details. 

I  approached.  Benard  sprang  tovrards  me,  took  me  by 
the  hand,  and  led  me  to  the  alcove. 

"This  is  what  I  have  been  doing  !"  he  said,  in  a  tone 


THE  DOVECOT.  143 

that  revealed  a  species  of  satisfaction  through  all  its  sorrow. 
"  See  !"  and  liis  voice  shook  more  and  more,  his  gestures 
became  febrile.  "  See  !  here  is  her  table,  covered  with 
black  cloth ;  here  is  the  cage,  the  canaries  are  dead, — in 
my  agony  I  forgot  them  :  she  would  not  have  done  so ;  site 
would  not !  Here  are  white  flowers, — whatever  I  gain,  I 
put  it  all  here ;  all  that  is  given  me — all !  Here  is  her 

watch,  the  watch  that " Tears  choked  him.  "  It  lias 

never  gone  since  that  day  ;  here  is  her  wedding-ring ;  here 
is  her  shawl, — her  poor  shawl." 

He  fell  on  his  knees,  hid  Ids  face  in  the  shawl,  buried 
his  head  there.  I  heard  him  sob  :  I  remembered  the 
silence  of  the  friends  of  Job.  Then  from  beneath  the 
folds— 

"She  was  my  faith,"  he  began  again,  in  a  despairing 
voice ;  "  she  taught  me  to  love  Jesus,  to  support  affliction  ; 
she  has  taken  away  everything  with  her — everything  !  I 
do  not  pray  any  more  ;  I  do  not  know  whether  I  believe  ! 
Will  God  have  anything  to  do  with  me  It" 

At  this  fearful  thought,  this  thunderbolt  hurled  by 
Satan's  deadly  hand,  he  tore  away  the  shawl  in  which  he 
had  wound  himself,  and  shewed  me  a  face  so  distorted, 
that  it  made  me  shudder.  Without  knowing  well  what  I 
was  doing, — with  one  of  those  dumb  cries  which  the  Lord 
hears,  I  snatched  at  a  book,  which  I  recognised  as  it  lay 
on  a  chair,  and  I  placed  it  open  upon  the  catafalque. 
Benard  saw  it,  rose,  bent  over  the  pages  without  touching 
them,  with  an  eager  eye,  like  one  dying  in  the  desert  over 
living  water. 

"  Death  shall  be  no  more/'  he  began  tremblingly  to  read. 
"There  shall  be  no  more  sorrow, — nor  crying, — nor  pain; 
— for  the  former  things  have  passed  away." 

The  almost  frantic  man  grew  gentle  as  a  child. 


THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

He  took  up  the  book  reverently,  kissed  it,  and  put  it 
back  where  I  had  placed  it. 

"  It  is  her  book, — her  New  Testament ;  and  I  who  had 
forgotten  it !  Yes,  there  !  it  is  well  placed  there  !  Her 
beautiful  book,  in  which  she  read  every  morning ;  which 
we  read  together  every  evening  !  It  is  thy  answer  to  me, 
my  beloved  !  It  is  thy  message ;  thou  givest  it  to  me ; 
yes,  thou  biddest  me  from  God  to  have  hope.  Yes,  yes  ;  I 
will  read,  I  will  pray,  I  will  submit, — that  I  will :  He  will 
hav  £  pity  on  me  ;  we  shall  be  together." 

From  that  moment  the  old  upholsterer  was  more  calm ; 
with  relapses  into  desolation,  almost  rebellion,  he  still  pro 
gressed  in  his  obedience.  Sometimes  he  believed  strongly 
enough  to  be  happy ;  sometimes  he  doubted,  and  was  lost 
in  misery ;  sometimes  he  would  be  overwhelmed  with  re 
morse  ;  at  others,  he  would  lay  hold  on  the  forgiveness  of 
Jesus. 

His  was  a  weak,  worn-out  head ;  one  of  those  natures 
that  the  wise  willingly  reprimand,  because  they  are  fatigu 
ing,  full  of  incoherence,  full  of  contradictions ;  because  in 
dealing  with  them,  one  has  always  to  begin  anew,  and  one 
likes  to  see  an  end  to  every  undertaking,  even  the  best. 
His  was  one  of  those  poor  hearts  :  mighty  to  suffer,  un 
fitted  for  daily  life ;  violent,  earnest,  impossible  to  divert, 
humble,  broken  always,  for  which  the  Lord  has  ineffable 
tendernesses. 

He  worked  no  more  ;  his  pride  in  his  calling,  his  trade, 
his  skill, — all  that  was  over.  He  wandered  about,  picking 
up  odd  jobs  as  a  porter.  But  in  the  alcove  his  former  sell 
returned.  There  the  upholsterer  revived  ;  the  old,  ardent, 
exact  upholsterer  devoted  to  his  business ;  every  penny 
that  he  earned,  every  alms  he  received,  went  there.  There 
he  fitted  on  different  stuffs,  decorated  continually,  invented 


THE  DOVECOT.  145 

new  devices.  Half  famished,  ill-clothed,  ill-kept,  he  still 
possessed  in  the  matter  of  his  catafalque  all  his  former 
enthusiasm  and  most  minute  exactness.  People  said,  "  You 
should  clothe  him  :  it  is  no  use  to  give  him  money ;  it  all 
goes  in  knick-knacks  and  nonsense  ;  it  only  feeds  his  folly." 
But  his  folly  was  one  of  those  which  will  be  fed.  If  you 
cut  off  their  allowance,  they  devour  the  heart. 

One  day  the  old  upholsterer  came  to  me  almost  radiant. 
"I  have  an  idea  !"  he  said.  "It  may  take  me  years  to 
carry  out.  But,  never  mind ;  I  shall  do  so  in  the  end.;' 
He  lowered  his  voice  :  "  I  mean  to  hang  my  room  with 
black,  with  white  cords  and  white  drops.  When  this  is 
finished,  I  have  a  notion  that  Jesus  will  take  me." 

He  shewed  me  the  box  in  which  his  treasures  were 
accumulating, — a  five-franc  piece,  some  smaller  money,  his 
daily  bread,  his  daily  toil, 

Before  it  was  finished,  Jesus  took  him. 


MAEIETTA. 

JO  you  will  not  come  and  see  Marietta?  She 
understands  French,  and  then  you  would  he 
giving  her  so  much  pleasure  !" 

Thus  spoke  Master  Schimp.  Master  Schimp  was  a 
shoemaker,  settled  in  the  little  German  town  held  in  charge 
by  the  old  General,  where  I  had  gone  with  the  Baroness. 

Master  Schimp  had  brought  home  my  shoes.  He  some 
times  made  shoes  for  me ;  and  when  finished  he  brought 
them  home,  and  when  he  brought  them,  he  sat  down,  and 
when  he  sat  down,  he  never  knew  when  to  get  up  again  ! 

He  was  a  hale,  thick-set  man  of  seventy,  as  wrinkled  as 
an  ancient  banner,  with  a  tangled  shock  of  hair,  small, 
clear  gray  eyes,  a  flexible  mouth,  a  comfortable  opinion  of 
himself,  and  the  best  heart  in  the  world. 

He  talked  well,  and  he  talked  a  great  deal  in  French, 
and  almost  without  accent ;  in  a  neat,  precise  fashion, 
allowing  himself  full  leisure  to  seek  for  the  fit  expression, 
which  being  once  found,  he  proceeded  at  a  steady  pace, 
even  and  monotonous  as  the  drip  of  water. 

Steadying  his  green  bag  between  his  legs,  he  would  dive 
from  time  to  time  into  the  capacious  depths  of  his  pocket 
for  his  snuff-box,  and  giving  it  three  short,  sharp  taps  upon 
the  lid,  would  say  to  me,  while  he  helped  himself  to  a  large 
and  liberal  pinch — 

"You  do  not  take  snuff?"  then,  shaking  the  box,  he 
would  give  his  shirt-front  a  side  sweep  of  the  hand,  and 
resume  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 


MARIETTA.  147 

Have  you  e  rer  known  what  it  is  to  sit  in  the  very  fever- 
heat  of  impatience,  upright  and  smiling,  with  now  and  then 
a  gentle  inclination  of  the  head,  a  yes  and  no  repeated  at 
fitting  intervals ;  while  in  your  heart,  far  below  this  sur 
face  affability,  a  voice  went  on  exclaiming,  "  Provoking 
unconscionable  creature,  do  you  never  mean  to  go  away  at 
all  ?  You  have  been  here  at  least  an  hour  !  and  no  doubt 
will  sit  there  for  another  !  Oh  that  somebody  else  would 
want  me  !  would  come  to  fetch  me  away  ! " 

Then  conscience  murmurs,  "  Selfish  being !  are  sixty 
tedious  minutes  so  very  unendurable !  And  is  not  this 
my  neighbour,  my  brother,  worth  far  more,  it  may  be,  than 
myself  1  If  it  was  money  he  wanted,  it  would  be  given  him, 
— it  is  so  easy  to  be  bountiful  j  but  the  bounty  of  a  little 
kindness  is  not  so  readily  bestowed." 

The  mind  takes  this  into  account,  and  says,  "  Let  patience 
nave  its  work ;  little  annoyances  pave  the  way  to  great 
obediences.  Bend  to  this  one  with  a  good  will.  It  is 
now  and  then  that  we  meet  with  a  lion  on  the  path ;  but 
ants  will  run  across  it  every  day." 

"  True,"  replies  the  first  voice ;  "  but,  on  the  whole,  I 
should  prefer  a  lion." 

So  proceeds  this  confidential  discussion,  and  with  it, 
Master  Schimp  at  full  length.  He  holds  forth ;  he  goes 
back  to  his  youthful  days ;  upon  reminiscences  he  engrafts 
anecdotes,  in  no  way  remarkable  for  point  or  purpose ;  he 
branches  off  towards  religion,  he  branches  off  towards 
philosophy.  The  unfortunate  man,  it  seems,  has  been  «i 
reader ;  has  picked  up  everywhere  the  odds  and  cuds  of 
all  things,  and  has  forgotten  nothing  !  We  pass,  by  an 
easy  transition,  from  philosophy  to  politics,  from  politics 
to  France,  and  from  France  to  Paris,  his  favourite  place  of 
residence ;  he  lived  there  ten  years  in  the  days  of  the 


H8  1UE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

great  Napoleon  Napoleon  sets  him  en  croupe,  and  carries 
him  to  Germany  ;  the  Allies  bring  him  back  to  Paris, — to 
the  streets  as  they  were  then,  and  to  the  streets  as  they 
are  now:  their  original  names,  and  those  they  are  now 
known  by ! 

And  the  sun  is  sinking,  the  fresh,  cool  evening  stealing 
on ;  is  it  all  to  be  absorbed  in  this  way?  A  studied  silence, 
a  slight  fit  of  coughing,  a  fidgety  rearrangement  of  the 
chairs,  but  nothing  will  do. 

Till  at  last  he  began  to  talk  about  Marietta. 

And  who  was  Marietta  ?  An  invalid  cousin,  whom,  with 
her  sister,  he  had  taken  to  live  with  him. 

And  Marietta,  be  she  who  or  what  she  might  be,  saved 
me.  I  blessed  her,  and  putting  on  my  bonnet,  drew  a 
long,  relieved  breath,  and  said,  "  We  will  go." 

Even  Master  Schimp,  who  was  not  easily  impressed, 
seemed  struck  with  this  sudden  energy.  A  few  steps 
brought  us  to  his  small  neat  dwelling,  coloured  with  the 
peculiar  spinach-green  the  Germans  are  so  fond  of.  Its 
windows  shone  and  sparkled  with  cleanliness ;  on  one  side 
of  the  door  was  the  shop  where  he  kept  his  men  at  work, 
reserving  for  himself  (as  v»rc  have  seen)  the  task  of  carrying 
his  goods  to  their  destination. 

A  pleasant-looking  middle-aged  woman,  Marietta's  sister, 
who  was  standing  on  the  door-step,  moved  aside  to  let  us 
pass.  Master  Schimp  went  into  the  shop,  put  down  his 
parcel,  and  taking  the  leg  of  a  boot  out  of  the  hands  of  one 
of  his  men,  he  addressed  him  at  some  length  in  German, 
which  address,  or  one  of  similar  weight  and  emphasis,  he 
appeared  to  repeat  to  another  of  them,  while  carefully  ex 
amining  an  upper  leather ;  he  then  looked  at  me  with  a 
smile  which  seemed  to  say,  "  You  have  perhaps  understood 
Q  little,"  to  which  I  replied  by  a  lowly  gesture  of  depreca- 


MARIETTA.  149 

tion,  when  he  smiled  again,  and,  replacing  his  hat  by  a 
green  shade,  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  with  another  dive 
for  his  snuff-box,  another  pinch,  preceded  by  the  three 
sharp  taps,  he  murmured  an  apolcgy  for  passing  before 
me,  and  led  the  way  into  a  dark  passage. 

1  followed  him,  and  as  we  went  he  said,  "  So  you  do  not 
know  Marietta  ?  Well,  then,  you  have  something  curious 
to  see  !" 

He  opened  the  door,  and  as  the  light  streamed  into  the 
passage,  I  saw  indeed  something  which  seemed  rather  to 
spring  than  rise  out  of  a  chair,  and  come  forward  to  meet 
us.  I  stopped  short,  and  but  for  one  of  Master  Schimp's 
quick  keen  glances,  I  think  I  should  have  screamed.  How 
shall  I  describe  this  something,  this  poor,  strangely  de 
formed  creature,  three  feet  at  most  in  height,  and  with  a 
head  so  out  of  all  just  proportion  as  to  recall  the  paste 
board  monstrosities  that  milliners  sometimes  use  for  blocks , 
her  hands,  in  the  absence  of  arms,  sticking  out  of  her 
shoulders,  more  like  fins,  it  seemed  to  me,  than  hands ; 
without  legs,  almost  without  feet — a  maillot,  set  upright 
on  the  earth  !  And  yet  this  lived ;  it  spoke ;  it  had  a  soul : 
even  now  it  was  colouring  deeply. 

Master  Schimp,  who  had  meant  to  produce  a  strong 
effect,  looked  just  a  little  remorseful  at  the  extent  of  his 
success.  This  passed,  however,  with  the  moment,  and  a 
few  laughing  words  with  Marietta  set  him  at  one  with 
himself  again. 

"  No  fear,  cousin ;  '  a  friend,'  as  one  says  to  the  patrol. 
Come  now,  we  are  going  to  Lave  a  little  French." 

And  Master  Schimp  began  to  exhibit  his  prodigy. 
While  he  recounted,  without  sparing  me  a  single  date  or 
incident,  how  after  having  brought  Marietta  to  Live  with 
him,  he  had  first  taught  her  to  read  and  write  in  German, 


150  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

and  then  to  read  and  write  in  French  ;  how  he  had  fol 
lowed  this  up  by  arithmetic,  the  two  grammars,  geography, 
and  history  ;  and  how  Marietta  had  taught  herself  knitting, 
embroidering,  and  all  varieties  of  needlework;  while  he 
shewed  me  her  copy-books,  and  drew  a  crotchet  collar  out 
of  the  poor  girl's  work-basket,  Marietta,  who  had  been  at 
first  even  painfully  embarrassed,  began  to  be  more  at  her 
ease.  She  looked  at  her  cousin  with  mild  eyes  so  full  of 
gratitude,  of  affection,  of  deep  respect,  of  implied  confi 
dence,  that  they  seemed  able  to  take  in  no  other  object. 

And  I,  too,  had  by  this  time  regained  my  self-possession. 
I  ventured  to  look  again  at  Marietta,  and  again  not  with 
out  a  shock ;  so  pitiable,  so  appalling  was  this  malforma 
tion,  that  the  heart  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it.  It  was 
a  contradiction,  an  impossibility.  One's  innate  sense  oi 
fitness  seemed  outraged  by  such  a  strange  freak  on  the 
part  of  Nature,  and  when  I  remembered  that  Nature  was 
but  another  word  for  the  Creator,  and  that  this  deplorable 
travesty  had  been  permitted,  a  wherefore  of  fearful  import 
arose  within  my  mind.  It  came  there,  however,  and  was 
gone  like  a  flash ;  another  look,  and  the  dark  surmise 
passed  away  for  ever.  This  poor  head  could  boast  of  its 
dark  abundant  hair,  of  fine  eyes,  and  of  regular  feature's, 
but  it  was  not  in  these  that  its  charm  was  found,  but  in 
the  tender,  inexpressible  charm  of  its  expression ;  in  the 
joy,  the  peace,  the  purity,  that  spoke  there  with  such  ti 
pure,  restrained  simplicity — the  soul  looking  forth  so 
clearly,  that  one  forgot  whether  the  body  was  there  or  not, 

But  had  this  soul  itself, — Marietta's,  any  thoughts  about 
the  singular  setting  in  which  it  found  itself?  It  might  be 
so,  but  the  consciousness  was  not  apparent.  After  the  first 
embarrassment  of  my  introduction  was  over,  Marietta 
talked  to  me  without  constraint ;  her  voice  had  a  youth- 


MARIETTA.  151 

ful,  touching  tone  in  it  that  went  very  straight  to  the 
heart. 

Master  Schimp  xras  called  away  and  the  expression  of 
her  eyes  changed  a  little ;  they  seemed  to  send  forth  a 
dimmer  light,  as  a  lamp  does  after  it  has  been  let  down. 

"  My  cousin  is  so  kind/'  she  exclaimed,  with  animation  ; 
"  so  very  kind ;  he  spoils  me/'  she  added,  with  a  smile  ; 
"  he  thinks  that  I  know  everything,  when  I  scarcely  know 
anything  at  all  And  everything  is  his  doing  ;  he  has  been 
both  father  and  mother  to  me." 

Her  eyes  filled,  and  I  saw  that  her  heart,  too,  was  very 
full.  After  a  short  silence,  she  went  on,  as  if  in  answer  to 
my  unspoken  thought — 

"  I  am  happy ;  the  Lord  Jesus  has  loved  me, — a  poor 
little  creature  like  me,"  (this  was  the  only  allusion  she  made 
to  her  infirmities.)  "  My  cousin  loves  mo,  too  j  my  sister, 
everybody ;  the  day  is  not  long,  and  in  the  evenings  we 
read  together,  and  are  very  happy." 

"You  go  out  sometimes?" 

"  Not  now ;  my  cousin  had  a  little  carriage  made  for  me, 
which  he  used  to  draw,  but  since  a  very  serious  illness,  I 
have  not  been  able  to  bear  the  movement  of  the  wheels." 

"And  you  will  sometimes  wish  for  a  sight  of  the 
country?" 

Marietta  coloured  slightly.  "Once  I  used,"  she  said, 
"but  not  now.  I  look  elsewhere."  Then,  after  a  short 
silence,  and  because  she  saw  me  look  sorrowful,  she  added, 
"  There  are  flowers  in  Paradise." 

Yes,  I  thought, — and  a  glorified  body ;  but  this  I  did 
not  say  to  her. 

She  had  lived,  it  was  evident,  in  an  atmosphere  of  kind 
ness,  and  having  never  been  exposed  to  those  collisions 
which  wound  *he  heart  just  when  it  is  seeking  t<?  expand, 


152  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

she   expressed   her   feelings   artlessly,    and  just   as  they 
arose. 

"My  greatest  sorrow  is,  that  I  am  ungrateful  Yes," 
she  continued,  not  juite  understanding  my  look  of  surprise, 
"  yoi .  would  not  have  believed  it  of  me,  and  yet  it  is  so. 
There  are  times  when  I  am  so  cast  down;  everything 
seems  so  dull,  and  my  heart  so  heavy.  Then  I  could 
gladly  cry ;  but  this  never  lasts  long,  and  God  forgives  me 
for  it.  He  has  forgiven  me  all" 

She  then  began  to  tell  me  how  she  spent  her  time. 
Her  cousin  had  so  stored  her  mind  with  knowledge,  had 
so  built  up  her  life  in  the  strength  of  practical  faith,  that 
in  neither  was  there  room  left  for  weariness  or  for  despair ; 
and  this  poor  being,  disinherited  even  of  the  outward  sem 
blance  of  humanity,  had  gone  on  her  way  unchallenged  by 
any  of  those  desolating  problems  which  pierce  through  the 
very  bones  and  marrow,  and  make  the  knees  of  the  strong 
to  bow  under  them. 

Cousin  Schimp  did  nothing,  it  was  plain,  by  halves ;  he 
iiad  finished  off  his  work,  just  as  he  had  finished  off  his 
sentences.  It  was  impossible  to  look  round  the  room 
without  being  struck  with  the  exquisite  keeping  of  its 
arrangements.  Marietta's  furniture,  arm-chair,  table,  desk, 
even  her  vase  of  flowers,  were  all  adapted  to  her  height : 
everything  was  pretty,  everything  perfect  in  its  way  ;  little 
steps  to  enable  her  to  reach  the  window,  and  the  splendid 
stock  which  was  now  beginning  to  blossom.  All  this 
seemed  quite  fit  and  natural ;  the  eye  was  not  startled,  but 
as  it  passed  over  the  little  interior  picture,  and  took  in  all 
this  watchful  considerate  detail,  one  felt  something  like  a 
loving  Presence  there  in  the  warm,  wide  bounty  of  a 
loving  thought. 

The  door  burst  suddenly  open.     Six  rosy,  curly,  little 


MARIETTA.  153 

{ iris,  basket  on  arm,  rushed  in  tumultuously,  and  flew  to 
Marietta,  almost  overwhelming  her  with  kisses.  Now  it 
was  that  her  face  lightened  up  in  earnest,  and  her  smile 
crew  heavenly. 

"  I  teach  them,"  she  said,  "  to  read  and  work." 

It  was  worth  something  to  see  the  happy,  self-important 
look  of  the  little  things  as  they  placed  themselves  on  each 
side  of  Marietta. 

I  left  her,  and  as  I  went  into  the  shop,  met  Master 
Schimp,  green  shade,  spectacles,  and  snuff-box. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

I  could  not  speak,  but  pressed  his  hands  within  my 
own. 

"  She  is  my  child,"  he  said,  in  a  subdued  tone. 

Master  Schimp,  you  are  a  great  man;  and  Thou,  my 
God,  art  the  great  God  of  earth  and  heaven  J 


THE  SCULPTOR. 

|N"  a  foggy  day  of  December,  I  found  myself  in  one 
of  the  oldest  streets  of  the  old  city  of  Paris.  I 
was  seeking  there,  guided  by  the  address  of  a 
letter  received  the  evening  before,  the  dwelling  of  a  sculptor. 
It  was  no  easy  task  The  street  was  composed  of  mud,  of 
two  walls,  behind  which  was  land  to  be  sold,  of  piles  of 
rubbish,  and  five  or  six  miserable  houses.  All  this  wan 
enveloped  in  a  noisome  fog.  After  going  backwards  and 
forwards  many  times,  I  discovered  the  number,  half  effaced, 
and  half  fallen  down  with  the  plaster. 

The  house  fully  responded  to  the  street.  The  very  walls 
spoke  of  poverty,  stained  as  they  were  with  that  nauseous 
hue,  the  result  of  mud,  of  filth,  and  of  rain,  which,  is  the 
general  paint  of  the  hovels  of  the  poor.  There  was  no 
porter  •  the  foot  slipped  on  the  dark  and  slimy  staircase  ; 
at  each  landing-place  a  faint  ray  of  light  struggled  through 
a  small  window,  which  was  soon  lost  again  in  the  gloomy 
labyrinth.  Here  and  there  dilapidated  doors  opened  on 
some  miserable  threshold.  At  length  I  found  the  one  I 
sought  j  it  stood  half-opened  ;  I  pushed  it  and  entered. 
To  the  right  of  me  was  a  kind  of  studio  or  workshop, 
strewed  with  statuettes,  and  tools,  and  clay ;  at  the  bottom 
of  this  a  larger  chamber.  It  had  lofty  windows,  but  one 
half  was  paper,  the  other  cobweb.  It  was  a  dim  light  that 
entered  there.  For  the  rest,  it  was  a  chaos  !  A  mere  con- 
fusion  of  casts  and  planter,  and  more  tools,  and  broken 


THE  SCULPTOR.  155 

chairs,  and  cooking  utensils,  and  an  old  petticoat,  crusts  of 
bread,  and  something  left  upon  a  plate,  cold  and  disgusting. 

Near  the  window  were  two  children  ;  one  of  twelve  years, 
thin,  with  pale  face,  with  large  eyes  of  extreme  sweetness, 
and  long  hair,  soft  and  thick,  which  gave  to  his  features 
an  almost  feminine  delicacy.  With  his  long  thin  fingers  he 
was  modelling,  entirely  absorbed  in  his  work.  I  imagine 
that  Raphael,  when  a  child,  had  just  that  melancholy  face. 

His  brother,  a  smaller  child,  with  round,  full  features, 
but  pale  also  and  sickly,  watched  him  at  his  work.  When 
he  walked,  I  saw  that  he  was  lame. 

At  the  noise  of  my  entrance  both  turned,  then  took  to 
consider  me  with  the  same  astonishment. 

I  asked  for  their  father. 

The  elder  one  put  aside  his  model,  made  some  steps  for 
ward  ;  the  other  followed,  limping.  I  penetrated  into  the 
recess,  they  returned  to  the  window. 

It  was  so  dark  where  I  was,  that  for  a  moment  I  could 
distinguish  nothing.  The  air,  too,  was  stifling,  a  fit  of 
coughing  seized  me,  which  was  so  far  opportune  that  it 
relieved  me  from  some  embarrassment.  A  sonorous  yet 
broken  voice  asked  what  and  who  it  was.  My  name  told 
him  nothing ;  for  a  silence  followed,  in  which  I  felt  an  air 
of  constraint.  There  was  nothing  heard  but  that  hissing 
respiration  which  marks  the  last  stage  of  consumption. 

It  was  the  wife  of  the  sculptor  who  had  written  to  me ; 
the  husband,  it  was  evident,  knew  nothing  of  it. 

Feeling  my  way  to  a  chair,  I  muttered  something  about 
art,  about  statuettes,  awkwardly  onough. 

Meanwhile,  my  sight  grew  accustomed  to  the  obscurity. 
I  began  to  discern  a  bedstead,  and  a  man  sitting  up  in  it, 
breathing  hard,  and  looking  at  me  in  silence. 

It  was  a  noble  countenance,  one  of  those  faces  that 


156  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

attract  you  at  once  by  their  sympathetic  revelations; 
whilst  there  are  others  you  may  have  seen  twenty  years, 
and  may  see  twenty  years  more,  which  remain  flat,  and 
hard,  and  secret  as  a  wall. 

He  had  a  piercing  eye,  dark  hair  thrown  backwards,  a 
forehead  beautifully  formed,  a  beard  slightly  touched  with 
gray,  mouth  refined,  candid,  loyal,  and  an  air  of  distinction 
which  was  felt  even  through  his  extreme  pallor. 

"  Is  it  as  artist — or  amateur  ? " 

"  Both — a  little.  I  have  heard  your  works  spoken  of ; 
you  are  suffering  ;  I  think  that " 

The  sculptor  saw  that  I  was  embarrassed.  Without 
stopping  for  explanation,  with  a  charming  smile,  and  the 
perfect  air  of  high  breeding  that  seeks  to  put  at  his  ease 
some  stranger  fallen  from  the  clouds,  he  called  to  his  son — 

"Francis,  shew  us  the  Rachel,  the  Child  with  the 
Butterfly,  and  the  Young  Girl" 

Francis  brought  these  little  figures,  and  with  them  two 
or  three  of  revolutionary  subjects,  which  the  father  had 
not  asked  for.  In  the  first  there  was  great  talent,  and 
true  feeling  for  the  ideal,  and  a  supreme  elegance  of  form ; 
the  others  were  inferior ;  they  were  highly  finished,  but  it 
was  the  tool  of  the  workman  mere  than  the  thought  of  the 
artist  that  you  saw.  In  fact,  it  was  trade  and  speculation  ; 
a  bill  drawn  on  the  popular  passions  of  the  day.  The 
sculptor  at  bay  had  asked  for  bread.  Poverty,  not  art,  had 
inspired  them. 

"  Oh,  these  are  nothing  ! "  he  said,  pushing  them  aside ; 
"  the  others,  perhaps,  have  some  merit." 

The  ice  was  now  broken  ;  he  talked  of  sculpture,  paint 
ing,  music.  On  everything  he  spoke  well ;  in  simple  un- 
pedantic  style ;  in  the  language  of  good  society,  as  the 
highly-educated  gentleman.  One  felt  there  was  some  ter- 


THE  SCULPTOR.  157 

rible  incongruity  in  his  life ,  some  degrading  circumstance 
was  tyrannising  over  him.  The  scene  by  which  he  was 
surrounded  was  not  the  only  proof;  certain  intonations, 
certain  gestures,  involuntary  habits  of  another  life,  struck 
me  with  pain ;  and  he  himself  became  conscious  of  them, 
for  he  suddenly  paused. 

"  I  have  worked  too  much,"  he  said ;  "  during  three 
months  I  have  laboured  night  as  well  as  day.  It  was  for 
a  physician, — he  wanted  some  anatomical  models ;  one 
must  earn  one's  bread  ! " 

His  voice  failed ;  but  afterwards  he  resumed  more  gaily — 

"This  illness  of  mine  is  nothing, — some  influenza.  I 
wn  better ;  in  a  few  days  I  shall  be  well.  I  have  work 
enough  to  do." 

The  idea  had  crossed  his  mind  that  I  had  come  on  some 
charitable  errand.  It  was  but  a  momentary  thought ;  but 
it  knit  his  brow,  gave  a  hard,  dry  tone  to  his  speech,  and 
threw  over  his  whole  demeanour  an  air  almost  of  hauteur. 
By  a  brisk  turn  in  the  conversation,  I  dissipated  this  idea, 
and  he  again  became  natural  and  gracious  in  his  manner. 

I  admired  enthusiastically  the  Child  with  the  Butterfly 
and  the  Young  Girl.  The  eye  of  the  sculptor  kindled. 
Artist  and  man, — the  artist,  proud  of  his  work ;  the  man, 
proud  of  his  unsubdued  energy  :  both  seemed  to  revive. 
He  raised  his  head  with  easy  complacent  movement ;  life 
and  almost  gaiety  was  restored.  I  asked  permission  to 
carry  away  with  me  those  little  masterpieces. 

"It  is  you  who  grant  the  favour  by  taking  them  ! " 
And  there  was  that  air  of  the  perfect  gentleman  as  he  said 
this,  that  positively  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  the  price  of  the 
little  figures,  nor  to  deposit  it  on  the  old  chair  that  served 
us  for  table. 

At  this  moment  his  wife  entered  :   a  woman  of  lofty 


158  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

stature,  thin,  draped  in  a  faded  tartan.  She  had  rcgolai 
features,  a  majestic  carriage,  a  tragic  step.  When  she  saw 
me,  she  concealed  under  the  folds  of  her  shawl  the  long 
carrots  and  the  loaf  of  bread  she  had  brought  in  her 
basket. 

The  sculptor  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  was  silent. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  comprehended  something  of  the 
mystery  of  his  destiny. 

This  woman  deposited  her  basket ;  then,  with  a  theatri 
cal  gesture,  embraced  her  children,  as  'Medea  might  have 
done  her  sons.  She  looked  at  me,  saw  who  I  was,  and 
knowing  the  errand  on  which  I  had  come,  beckoned  me 
out  of  the  recess ;  then  she  extended  her  hand,  received 
the  sum  I  placed  in  it,  spoke  to  me,  with  great  emphasis 
of  voice  and  manner,  of  her  husband,  of  herself,  of  the  ex 
pensive  malady,  of  poetry  and  literature ;  and  finally 
launched  into  abstruse  regions,  where  she  lost  her  footing, 
and  I  too.  In  everything,  the  tone  rang  false  ;  she  de 
claimed  as  on  the  stage ;  not  that  she  was  absolutely  dis 
sembling,  but  there  are  human  instruments  which,  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end,  have  a  false  pitch.  The  worst  is, 
that  such  instruments  never  cease  ;  they  clang  through  all, 
and  put  others  to  silence.  There  are  people  whose  very 
nature  is  an  extravagance  ;  with  whom  simple  truth  would 
be  an  affectation ;  whose  thoughts  are  always  mounted  upon 
stilts ;  who  must  talk  through  a  speaking-trumpet.  Tl;e 
wife  of  the  sculptor  was  one  of  these  creatures.  Very 
stately,  always  inflated,  constantly  preoccupied  with  her 
own  dignity,  full  of  mystery,  profoundly  oracular,  playing 
her  comedy  very  seriously,  as  if  queen  of  the  theatre, — 
perhaps  she  had  been. 

The  sculptor  did  not  open  his  mouth.  By  his  short, 
nervous  cough  I  knew  that  he  was  impatient ;  I  left 


THE  SCULPTOR.  159 

I  returned  often  ;  the  sculptor  grew  worse  and  worse, 
tie  always  said  he  was  better  ;  did  Le  believe  it  1 

By  degrees  he  grew  more  sociable.  When  his  wife  was 
absent,  he  talked  with  perfect  ease,  with  a  perfect  freedom 
of  mind.  There  was  rarely  an  allusion  to  other  times,  or 
it  was  so  veiled,  so  covert,  or  so  slight,  that  only  a  quick 
observer  could  have  detected  it.  We  talked  of  art ;  each 
time  I  carried  away  some  statuette.  One  day — there 
remained  very  little  else  beside — I  chose  to  covet  a  little 
Republican  figure, — a  Buonapartist,  I  know  not  exactly 
\v3:at.  The  artist  looked  at  me  with  his  keen,  clear  eye. 

"You  wish  that?"  he  said,  with  a  tone  slightly  con 
temptuous. 

"  Yes  !  it  pleases  me ;  it  has  energy." 

He  reflected  for  an  instant :  a  tenderness  stole  over  his 
countenance  ;  he  stretched  out  his  hand — 

"  Thanks  ! "  he  said,  then  fell  back  upon  the  pillow. 

This  was  the  only  occasion  on  which,  upon  that  terrible 
question  of  money,  he  departed  from  his  accustomed  re 
serve,  his  proud  rigidity  of  manner. 

Between  him  and  his  wife  there  was  a  wall,  a  gulf, — I 
know  not  which  to  call  it.  She  attended  on  him  with  a 
certain  ostentatious  respect ;  but  without  tact,  or  taste,  or 
;uiy  anticipation  of  his  wants.  He,  on  his  part,  never 
addressed  to  her  a  single  reproach;  he  never  called  her  to 
his  side.  She  declaimed  about  herself  and  her  services  as 
she  did  on  all  subjects.  Meanwhile,  sle  left  him  in  that 
dark  recess.  He  never  asked  to  be  drawn  from  it,  and 
she  never  dreamt  that  he  had  need  of  fresher  air.  Around 
him  no  comfort,  no  little  attentions ;  and  in  the  chamber, 
no  attempt  at  order  or  cleanliness.  One  might  as  well 
have  expected  a  Crytemnestra  to  sweep  out  Hie  kitchen. 

With  all  th"   pretensions  of  the  great  lady,  this  woman 


160  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

was  mean  to  excess.  This  man,  under  his  poverty,  in 
his  rags,  on  his  pallet,  in  his  silence,  had  an  incomparable 
nobility. 

More  than  once  we  conversed,  or  rather  I  spoke,  of  God 
and  of  the  future  ;  he  listened  to  me,  but  did  not  answer. 

She  discoursed  abundantly  on  Providence  and  the  Su 
preme  Being,  and  poured  forth  her  pious  insipidities.  He 
coughed,  looked  towards  me,  then  turned  away.  On  those 
days  I  obtained  not  a  word  from  him. 

Soon,  alas  !  there  took  place  what  in  all  such  unions,  at 
a  given  hour,  is  sure  to  follow.  As  the  malady  advanced, 
as  his  feebleness  increased,  he  who  was  born  to  dominate, 
was  subjected  to  the  coarser  will  This  was  brought  about 
without  a  struggle,  without  noise,  without  premeditation. 
The  woman  was  robust,  powerful,  could  comprehend  animal 
courage,  and  in  proportion  as  the  sculptor  lost  his  strength, 
the  fear  that  she  had  of  displeasing  him  vanished  from  her 
mind.  She  did  not  attend  to  him  less,  if  she  could  be  said 
to  have  attended  to  him  at  all.  At  my  suggestion,  she 
even  decided  to  draw  his  bed  into  the  open  chamber  ;  but 
she  put  less  restraint  upon  herself,  she  talked  louder,  she 
harangued  more  frequently,  she  took  less  p^ins  to  conceal 
from  him  the  reception  of  pecuniary  aid.  Formerly,  she 
used  to  accompany  me  to  the  door,  leave  Jier  hod  open, 
when  I  had  deposited  my  offering  in  it,  she  would,  with 
mute  solemnity,  point  her  finger  to  the  skies  !  Now,  she 
made  constant  open  allusions  to  domestic  wants.  The 
sculptor  frowned  or  sighed ;  then  subduing  himself  by  an 
effort  oi:  self-command,  and  casting,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  a 
retrospective  glance  over  a  past  in  which  all  had  proved 
false  or  illusory,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, — -an  ironical 
smile  played  upon  his  lips,  the  smile  of  the  man  of  tbo 
world  at  the  treacheries  of  fortune. 


THE  SCULPTOR.  161 

There  had  been  some  great  blunder  followed  by  its  great 
penalty. 

The  disorder  made  frightful  progress.  The  sculptor 
spoke  no  more  of  recovery ;  neither  did  he  speak  of  dying ; 
he  kept  silence. 

I  think  he  liked  me ;  at  least  he  saw  me  with  pleasure, 
I  belonged  to  his  own  class,  and  then  I  certainly  did  not 
harangue  or  perorate. 

One  day  he  said  to  me,  with  failing  voice,  "  I  know  yon 
will  take  a  pleasure  in  rendering  me  a  service.  Ask  of 

,"  he  did  not  name  her,  "  my  last  pledges,  and  go  to 

the  Mont-de-Piete,  go  yourself,  and  withdraw  my  set  of 
napkins.  I  want,"  he  said,  looking  round  him  with  disgust., 
"  something  clean." 

I  pressed  his  hand. 

Early  on  the  morrow  I  was  there  with  the  packet  of 
napkins.  The  bed,  drawn  out  of  the  recess,  stood  close  to 
the  window ;  you  saw  distinctly  the  beautiful  lines  of  his 
pallid  face;  the  eyelids  were  half-closed,  there  was  a  smile 
upon  his  mouth.  He  raised  his  eyes,  saw  the  packet,  and, 
hardly  observing  me  at  the  moment,  began  immediately, 
with  trembling  hands,  to  undo  it. 

"Ah,  yes!"  he  said;  "yes!  I  recognise  them,  my 
beautiful  napkins.  Yes!  there  is  my  number,  120;  they 
are  the  same." 

He  took  them,  one  after  the  other,  and  buried  his  face 
in  the  soft  folds  of  the  damask,  revelling  in  the  sweet 
odour  of  cleanliness.  Closing  his  eyes,  all  his  old  luxury 
came  in  vision  around  him.  Weakness  fell  on  him — physical 
or  moral,  I  know  not.  His  grand  head  sunk  in  the  pillow ; 
the  napkins  foil  from  his  hand.  When  his  eyes  next  opened, 
he  fixed  them  intently  on  the  sky,  which  was  now  growing 
pale  with  the  close  of  day. 


162  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

Have  you  felt  when  death  approaches  a  human  soul,  one 
of  those  noble  souls  that  God  endows  with  poetry  and 
truth  and  power,  and  that  the  world  has  deceived,  that  it 
has  perhaps  spoilt — have  you  felt  before  that  strength 
which  is  dying  down,  before  those  nameless  miseries,  before 
those  poor  failing  limbs, — have  you  felt  an  immense  pit}' 
rise  into  your  heart, — have  you  felt  a  mute,  ineffable  ten- 
deiiiess  penetrate  into  your  very  marrow, — have  you  felt, 
notwithstanding  the  ardour  of  your  faith,  that  your  mouth 
was  frozen,  and  your  throat  closed,  dried  up?  Without 
voice,  without  a  word,  have  you  fallen  on  your  knees,  con 
scious  of  your  absolute  incapacity,  prostrated,  exhausted, 
before  the  God  who  saves  ?  If  you  have  felt  this,  you 
know  what  I  at  this  moment  experienced. 

The  sculptor  never  turned  his  head,  nor  withdrew  his 
gaze ;  he  was  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  darken 
ing  sky. 

His  wife  did  not  venture  to  touch  the  napkins,  thrown 
by  hazard  here  and  there  upon  the  bed ;  the  children  stood 
by  motionless.  This  state  of  things  continued  for  some 
time. 

The  day  following,  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  re 
ceived  a  letter  with  the  deepest  of  black  borders.  The 
sculptor  had  died  in  the  night ;  his  wife  prayed  me  to 
come  to  her. 

I  was  very  little  disposed  to  do  so,  nevertheless  I  went. 
It  lay  there,  that  noble  head,  cold,  and  with  an  ideal  beauty. 
It  lay  there,  that  poor  body,  extended,  weak  with  the  last 
utter  weakness.  The  soul,  in  its  departure,  had  left  peace 
upon  the  brow  ;  it  was  calm,  clear,  unwrinkled,  and  the 
lips  had  taken  their  first  delicate  contour. 

At  my  entrance,  the  widow,  raising  herself  to  her  full 
height,  and  standing  with  her  two  hands  upon  the  heads  of 


THE  SCULPTOR.  163 

her  two  sons,  one  foofr  advanced — tragic  attitude  of  the. 
desolated  mother — began  to  pour  out  her  benediction  upon 
these  orphans,  in  a  discourse  swelling  with  redundant 
epithets.  It  was  an  actress,  wanting  only  the  passion  of 
one. 

Francis  stood  with  eyes  cast  down,  and  tears  running  on 
his  cheeks ;  a  slight  bending  of  his  head,  as  if  to  withdraw 
it  from  the  hand  of  his  mother,  betrayed  an  internal  revolt ; 
lie  was  subjected,  but  he  suffered. 

The  younger  brother,  utterly  inattentive,  looked  here  and 
there,  kneading  all  the  time  a  piece  of  clay  in  his  fingers. 
He  was  accustomed  to  his  mother's  declamations ;  one 
more  or  less  mattered  little ;  when  she  had  done,  he  would 
return  to  his  playthings.  And  he  did  return  to  them. 

Now  there  entered  a  working  man,  a  moulder,  a  taker  of 
casts ;  honest  fellow  enough,  in  rude  health,  red  lip,  black 
moustache,  ignorant  of  suffering.  " Ha  !"  he  said;  " seems 
that  it  is  all  over  !  Poor  man  1" 

The  widow  resumed  an  attitude,  and  improvised  ex 
pressly  for  him  a  new  monologue,  to  which  he  listened 
with  open  mouth,  and  with  some  pleasure,  as  if  all  were 
passing  at  a  theatre. 

The  grief  of  the  widow  was  not  certainly  to  the  level  of 
her  demonstrations,  yet  there  was  some  sincerity  in  her 
tears.  She  felt  that  the  dead  man  extended  there,  had 
been  the  poetry,  the  ideal  of  her  life.  All  thcn>  was  gone, 
never  to  return.  Besides,  he  had  been  kind  to  her.  His 
own  illusion  and  bitter  disenchantment,  she  had  hardly 
suspected.  Whilst  he  could  work  at  his  art,  he  had  con 
cealed  them  from  her;  when  ill,  she  accounted  for  his 
silence  by  his  malady ;  she  could  see  no  further.  Now 
that  he  was  dead,  she  paid  what  respect  she  could.  Here 
was  the  man  with  plaster  to  take  a  cast  of  her  husband. 


164  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

This  was  all  in  her  part.  And  tnen  he  had  a  beautiful 
head,  and  then — the  cast  would  sell. 

When  she  had  finished  her  discourse,  the  man  took  his 
plaster,  and  threw  handfuls  of  it  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 
The  younger  boy  approached  the  moulder,  and  followed  his 
operations  with  a  curious  eye.  The  elder  son  concealed 
himself  in  the  solitary  workshop. 

As  to  the  widow,  she  had  put  on  her  shawl,  and  gone  to 
seek  something  for  the  pot  aufeu. 


THE  AEBOTJB. 

now  I  return,  to  seat  myself  under  the  service- 
tree  Arbour  at  the  Old  Manor-house  in  my 
father's  garden. 

This  garden  had  broad  walks,  bordered  with  box;  it 
was  well  walled  in.  The  orchard  trees  looked  over  the 
wall,  and  above  the  orchard  trees  rose  the  misty  mountain, 
in  successive  stages — some  wooded,  some  bare,  all  with 
projecting-roofed  cottages,  perched  on  a  peak,  or  hidden  in 
a  dell ;  the  Jura,  with  its  dark  pines,  and  upper  pastu'^s, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  chdlets,  dominating  all 

In  April,  before  the  leaves  are  out,  the  service-tree 
arbour  is  starred  with  yellow  flowers ;  bees  swarm  there, 
the  buzzing  is  like  that  of  a  hive.  Through  the  flowery 
branches,  you  see  the  sky,  with  light  fleecy  clouds,  moving 
on  gently  before  the  softened  breeze.  Behind  the  arbour 
there  is  the  stand  of  bee-hives — a  beautiful  stand,  resting 
against  the  bakehouse,  facing  due  east,  and  covered  with 
wild  vine  ;  four  rows  of  hives  displaying  themselves  proudly 
in  their  smooth,  polished  deal  case. 

In  May,  when  the  apple-trees  of  the  garden  are  in  flower, 
you  might  take  them  for  orange-trees  ;  then  it  is  that 
spring-tide  scents  and  living  murmur  spread  all  round  ;  the 
branches  scatter  a  very  rain  of  pink  petals  and  golden 
pollen  ;  the  bees  seem  delirious  with  delight ;  bright-hued 
insects  poise  themselves  over  the  fragrant  tufts  ;  there  is  an 
exuberant  burst  of  blossom  on  all  sides.  The  ground  is 


THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

still  bare,  except  for  tlie  gay  tulip  beds,  but  the  white 
silvery  dome  of  the  fruit-trees,  with  the  blue  sky  above 
them,  make  the  garden  a  gorgeous  scene  such  as  man  could 
never  have  imagined,  had  not  the  country  been  strewn 
abundantly  with  such  by  God's  bounteous  hand. 

On  fine  May  Sunday  evenings,  when  one  is  seated  be 
neath  the  service-tree  arbour,  one  can  hear  the  village  girls 
going  round  the  large  green  enclosure  in  groups,  hand 
clasped  in  hand,  taking  the  road  that  winds  through  the 
meadows,  with  the  Alps  sparkling  at  the  horizon.  The 
girls,  as  they  go  keep  singing  plaintive  songs,  their  voice 
dwelling  chiefly  on  the  high  notes,  and  having  a  certain 
shrill  and  melancholy,  wild  and  sylvan  character,  that  re 
calls  the  fragrance  of  the  lily  of  the  valley.  While  the 
moon  rises,  they  go  on  stringing  couplet  on  couplet,  some 
times  nearer,  sometimes  further,  always  in  one  measure. 
Occasionally  this  mournful  song  is  broken  by  bursts  of 
laughter.  This  occurs  when  the  young  men,  who  follow  at 
a  distance,  also  in  parties,  and  hand  in  hand,  have  stopped 
short  to  wait  the  return  of  the  young  girls,  and  stop  their 
way.  Then  the  song  bursts  out  again,  clear  as  crystal, 
full  of  wild  modulations,  fraught  with  an  inexpressible 
poetry,  only  to  be  met  with  in  the  fields.  Night  falls,  the 
stars  light  up ;  gradually,  the  singers  return  to  the  village, 
everything  is  silent  except  the  frog,  who  croaks  discreetly 
at  the  edge  of  the  brook. 

In  June,  the  whole  country  is  leafy ;  there  are  deep 
shadows,  and  places  scorched  with  sunshine.  Tne  arbour 
is  well  shut  in  by  its  service-tree ;  you  catch  warblings, 
little  cries,  flutterings,  flapping  of  wings  ;  and,  when  even 
ing  comes,  whole  broods  shelter  amidst  the  branches. 
Through  them  we  can  just  see  the  hives,  from  whence 
exhales  a  scent  of  virgin-wax ;  the  bees  hang  on  them  in 


THE  ARBOUR.  167 

brown  clusters ;  they  keep  returning  with  bundles  of  pollen 
round  their  legs,  and  such  buzzing,  and  such  frantic  haste  ! 
At  the  mouth  of  each  Mve- — en  the  stand  which  is  gilded 
by  the  yellow  dust  dropping  from  the  spoil — stand  the 
sentinels,  strongly  entrenched,  their  head  within,  their  body 
outside  the  hive,  making  the  air  vibrate  with  the  rapid 
movement  of  their  wings. 

A  clump  of  trees  shelters  the  stand  of  hives  from  the 
north  winds :  nut-trees,  elders,  lilacs,  privet,  the  chestnut 
with  its  fan-like  leaves,  and  the  maple  ;  all  these  with  their 
soft  tones  and  infinite  shades  ;  their  bright  display ;  their 
cool  depths  of  verdure.  On  the  top  of  the  wall,  pinks 
blossom  among  the  stones ;  and  there  are  wild  poppies 
there  too ;  moss  fading  in  the  sunshine ;  lizards  listening 
to  the  cricket  in  the  hay-fields.  Over  the  wall  trails  an 
entanglement  of  convolvulus,  nasturtiums,  and  sweet-peas, 
luxuriantly  falling  over  on  the  other  side. 

The  little  girls  when  they  pass  by  look  up;  stand  on 
tip-toe ;  catch  a  fragment  of  a  petal,  and  go  on  their  way 
delighted. 

The  fountain  leaps  in  the  sunshine ;  its  jet  cuts  the  Jura 
with  a  diamond  line ;  the  drops  keep  playing  their  clear 
umform  melody  in  the  freshened  air. 

The  mowers,  the  hay-makers,  take  a  path  that  keeps 
close  to  the  garden ;  children  are  fond  of  loitering  there. 
They  come  at  night  to  see  the  glow-worms  shining  on  the 
wall,  while  the  frogs  repeat  their  mournful  note.  There 
it  is  that  gossips  are  carried  on,  hurried  good-byes,  fresh 
laughter,  quiet  cogitations,  scraps  of  talk,  little  nothings ; 
all  that  makes  up  the  nature,  the  village,  the  simple  coun 
try  life  that  one  so  passionately  lovea. 

As  soon  as  the  sun  is  set,  the  massive  Jura  stands  out 
against  it,  with  outline  admirably  pure.  The  sky  behind 


168  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

it  then  assumes  that  transparent,  almost  green  tinge  that 
one  seen  in  Perngino's  paintings.  I  do  not  know  why  that 
particular  sky,  that  ethereal  hue,  that  light  without  rays, 
that  brightness  almost  polar  in  its  severity,  should  attract 
my  gaze,  as  if  it  were  just  there  that  we  might  look  for  the 
opening  out  of  Paradise  !  That  immutable  fortress  mabs 
me  muse.  When  my  thoughts  travel  along  unbroken 
horizons,  they  get  fainter  and  fainter;  melt  away  like  mist 
before  the  breeze.  When  they  meet  that  fortress,  with 
battlements  of  pine  ;  those  slopes  furrowed  by  steep  paths  ; 
those  openings  in  the  forest ;  the  perfect  line  of  that  far 
summit, — then  my  mind  wakes ;  my  life  seems  doubled. 
I  do  not  indeed  say  that  the  ideas  raised  are  always  very 
definite  ;  it  is  rather  a  healthy  gust  of  liberty  and  energy 
that  flows  down  from  thence,  and  fills  my  heart. 

How  many  sweet  hours,  how  many  blessed  hours  I  have 
spent  in  this  arbour  I  speak  of !  What  raptures  of  sun 
and  song  and  fresh  breezes,  what  prayers  in  agony,  what 
grateful  hymns  have  been  mine  !  And  when  my  eyes, 
while  reading  the  old  Bible  on  my  knee,  wandered  till  they 
lost  themselves  in  the  distance,  following  the  valley,  taking 
in  the  indented  ridge  of  the  wood;  then  returning  to  those 
peaceful  walks  close  by,  which  so  many  loved  and  lost  ones 
have  trodden;  when  my  glance  through  my  leafy  nest 
pierced  to  deepest  depths  of  intensest  azure,— oh,  how  I 
have  thanked  God  !  oh,  how  warmly  I  have  loved  Him  ! 
how  keenly  felt  that  this  was  true  life,  healthy  life  !  that 
it  was  a  mercy  beyond  all  others  to  be.  permitted  to  have 
onVs  dwelling-place  here,  in  this  full,  free  nature,  from 
morning  dawn  to  evening  gloom  ! 

There  has  been  much  singing  along-  these  old  walks, 
much  laughter,  some  weeping  too.  Many  children's  steps, 
uiany  young  girls'  feet,  have  sounded  on  this  gravel;  man- 


THE  ARBOUR.  169 

fair  dreams,  great  projects,  have  been  nursed  there.  When 
the  village-bell  strikes  the  hours,  when  at  twelve  it  rings 
for  dinner ;  in  the  evening,  summons  the  labourers  home  ; 
there  will  rise  out  of  my  past,  as  it  were,  swarms  of  loved 
faces  I  shall  never  see  more. 

My  own  young  years  rise  too.  See,  they  bring  me  back 
now  two  innocent  faces ;  two  old  faces  fresh  as  roses, — 
Nicholas  and  Marianne,  the  guardian  spirits  of  the  garden. 

They  had  the  management  of  the  Manor;  he  of  the 
cellar  and  the  bee-hives,  she  of  the  garden.  Nothing 
hardly  to  do,  only  to  keep  their  eyes  open. 

They  were  good,  plain,  well-to-do  villagers.  He  was  a 
Bernese ;  she  belonged  to  our  part  of  the  country.  Their 
united  ages  amounted  to  at  least  a  hundred  and  thirty 
years. 

In  the  morning  one  used  to  see  Nicholas,  with  a  thick, 
short  cap  on  his  little  round  head ;  breecnes  of  velvet,  like 
those  in  the  song ;  a  great  waistcoat  down  to  his  knees ; 
always  in  shirt-sleeves,  and  these  dazzlingly  clean ;  hands 
resting  on  two  sticks,  and  pipe  in  mouth,  move  very  slowly 
along  the  orchard,  along  the  Manor.  He  took  his  time ; 
he  was  never  in  a  hurry ;  but  he  got  all  the  same  to  his 
journey's  end.  One  never  heard  his  voice  except  in  a 
little,  contented  sort  of  grunt,  or  on  days  of  great  elo 
quence,  in  a  certain  "  See,  see,  see,"  hummed  inwardly.  It 
was  a  way  he  had  of  consulting,  haranguing,  and  approving 
himself. 

In  the  spring,  when  the  bees  began  to  swarm,  he  would 
e.-itublish  his  wife — "  the  Marianne"  under  the  Arbour. 

She  sat  there,  the  charming  old  woman,  a  measure  of 
dried  vegetables  in  her  apron ;  with  quiet  hand  shelling 
the  red,  white,  striped,  and  spotted  kidney-beans ;  while 
with  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  watched  the  hives.  She 


170  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

(vould  let  us  cliildien  sit  round  her,  our  hands  buried  in 
the  pretty  beans.  She  wore  a  white  cap  with  old-fashioned 
lace,  much  starched,  and  falling  stiffly  down  her  face. 
What  sort  of  eyes  had  she  1  I  do  not  know.  I  only  kno'.v 
that  she  was  beautiful,  with  those  red-rose  tints,  that  fresh 
bow-shaped  mouth  you  no  longer  see  in  town  or  country, 
and  that  mouth  always  smiling.  She  had,  besides,  two 
dimples  in  her  cheeks,  which  smiled  too.  When  we  were 
seated  on  the  gravel  before  her,  we  contemplated  her,  lis 
tened  to  her,  and  that  was  enough  in  itself  to  make  us  good 

She  never  scolded  ;  all  her  moral  teaching  was  contained 
in  these  few  words,  "  You  must  be  very  obedient,  and  then 
— pouis,  you  must  love  the  good  God." 

Her  talk  was  of  that  peaceful  kind  that  murmurs  on 
like  a  brook ;  now  flowing  through  fields,  now  over  stones  ; 
kissing  this  flower,  wetting  that  leaf  ;  while  the  butterflies 
poise  themselves  over  it,  and  look  at  their  own  reflection. 
She  pointed  out  bird  and  bee:  "Look  here,  see  there;" 
or  else  some  venturous  insect  climbing  a  blade  of  grass ; 
and  when  some  gayer  bean  than  the  others  passed  through 
her  fingers,  she  would  say,  "  Here,  take  it ;  it  is  the  king 
of  the  company."  And  so  she  went  on  shelling,  talking  ; 
the  hours  passed.  It  was  all  very  pleasant ;  peace  such  as 
I  have  not  since  found. 

All  at  once  here  are  the  bees  in  great  agitation  before 
the  hive.  "Go,  call  Nicholas;  go  quick;  that's  a  good 
child  now  !"  Oh,  the  delight  of  being  useful,  of  carry iui; 
a  message  !  Nicholas  listened,  took  his  pipe  from  his 
lips,  tapped  it  on  the  seat  to  shake  away  the  ashes.  "  See, 
see."  Then,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "  Go  and  get  me 
the  casse  ;  that's  a  good  child  now  !" 

And  slowly,  on  his  stout  sticks,  Nicholas  would  cross  the 
yard,  and  mount  the  garden  steps  one  by  one. 


THE  ARBOUR.  171 

The  casse  is  a,  shining  cc  pper  basin,  very  red  and  bright, 
which  floats  in  the  bucket  of  cold  water  that  always  stand? 
near  the  door  in  country  kitchens  ;  whoever  is  thirsty  taking 
a  draught  therefrom. 

"  Here  is  the  casse;  is  all  right,  Father  Nicholas  1" 

Father  Nicholas  sometimes,  arriving  too  late,  would  see 
the  swarm  all  assembled  in  the  air,  set  off  like  a  flash  of 
lightning  for  the  mountain,  under  his  very  nose.  For  a 
moment  he  would  remain  motionless ;  then — it  was  one  of 
those  rare  occasions  on  which  he  expressed  his  sentiments 
— "  Go  your  ways,  then,"  he  would  say  to  the  bees.  "  The 
good  God  bless  you.  It  is  not  I  who  am  going  to  run  after 
you." 

Marianne  would  be  much  distressed.  "Are  they  not 
bold?"  she  would  say,  in  her  peculiar  diction;  "are  they 
not  infidels?" 

Nicholas  would  shake  his  head ;  that  long  sentence  having 
been  uttered,  with  a  merry  eye  and  placid  mouth,  he  would 
leisurely  retake  the  way  he  came,  and  reach  the  yard,  the 
bench,  the  pipe.  When  he  got  there,  he  would  give  a 
grunt,  ouf!  let  himself  drop  down  all  of  a  piece,  half  close 
his  eyes,  and  inhale  his  tobacco  smoke  with  a  low  murmur 
of  comfort. 

More  often,  however,  the  bees,  who  knew  their  man, 
would  wait  for  him,  agitated  and  quivering.  Nicholas; 
placed  his  two  sticks  against  the  stand ;  took  the  copper 
basin  in  one  hand,  an  old,  many-warded  key  in  the  other, 
and  limping,  whistling,  tapping  away,  would  move,  followed 
by  the  swarm,  to  an  apple-tree,  where  the  bees  clustered. 

I  hear  it  still  that  rustic  sound,  I  hear  those  metallic 
notes,  and  that  little  blackbird  chirp  ;  I  see  the  light  cloud 
that  hovers  behind  Nicholas  ! 

And  Marianne  !     In  great  haste  she  would  bring  a  new 


172  THE  NEAR  HORIZONS. 

straw-hive,  well  rubbed  with  a  bit  of  balm  which  she  had 
just  gathered.  Nicholas  would  take  the  living  bunch  in 
his  hands,  and  pour  it  into  the  hive.  Calm,  staid,  deli 
berate  always  in  the  midst  of  the  excited  swarm. 

"Is  the  queen  there,  Father  Nicholas?  Did  you  see 
her?" 

"  See,  see,  see." 

The  hive  turnod,  Nicholas  stooped  heavily,  slowly 
arranged  it  upon  four  props,  then  Marianne  surrounded 
the  bees  with  a  large-patterned  carpet.  Was  it  not  well 
to  protect  the  new  swarm  from  the  fierce  heat  of  the  sun  ? 
In  the  evening  it  was  carried  to  the  stand,  and  throughout 
the  rest  of  that  day,  and  even  all  the  next,  the  bees  kept 
coming  and  going  between  the  apple-tree  and  the  hive. 

When  the  month  of  August  came,  it  was  time  to  take 
the  honey, — an  exciting  day  for  good  Father  Nicholas. 

He  covered  his  little  head  with  an  iron  helmet,  pointed, 
barred, — a  genuine  middle-age  relic  that  he  had  found  in 
some  cellar  or  other  of  the  manor-house. 

Still  whistling,  he  approached  the  hives,  lifted  them, 
methodically  arranged  the  amber  combs  in  red  earthenware 
dishes.  The  bees  raged — that  is  made  believe — for  they 
knew  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  with  Father  Nicholas. 
Hive  after  hive  had  to  submit ;  Nicholas,  who  was  a  just 
i»ian,  left  them  an  ample  provision  for  the  winter.  Poor 
Marianne  used  to  be  sadly  frightened  when  he  adventured 
himself  thus  in  the  midst  of  clouds  of  angry  insects. 

"  Must  take  care,  Nicholas,  and  then  (pouis)  pray  God 
Almighty  to  have  a  care  of  you  too." 

But  autumn  has  come.  The  trees  have  yielded  up  their 
fruit,  the  wild  vine  clothes  the  hive-stand  with  a  drapery 
richer  in  purple  and  gold  than  any  tissue  woven  in  cities 
for  monarchs'  robes.  The  blue  and  silver  aster-blossoms 


THE  ARBOUR.  173 

sway  in  the  breeze ;  the  redbreast  tries  to  repeat  his  spring 
song — alas !  he  has  left  his  best  notes  on  the  hawthorn 
bushes  ;  he  hops  hither  and  thither  in  warm  spots,  whereon 
the  November  sun  has  power  to  chase  the  fog  away.  Brown 
Butterflies  display  their  velvet,  purple-eyed  wings  on  the 
year's  last  flowers ;  the  bee  comes  there  too,  benumbed, 
melancholy.  The  red  service-berries  are  fallen,  the  arbour 
has  lost  all  its  shade.  In  the  field,  behind  the  willows, 
smoke  rises  from  the  fire  made  by  a  boebe  herding  cows. 
To-morrow  they  will  be  brought  in;  the  white  frosts 
wither  the  grass. 

The  vintage  is  over,  the  wine  ferments  in  the  cask 
Walnuts  are  cracked  during  the  long  evenings  at  tables 
covered  with  cider,  cheese,  and  apples.  The  hemp  hangs 
in  silken  plaits  from  the  ceiling,  ready  for  the  spinning- 
wheel  and  the  winter  nights.  The  shorn  sheep  gladly  seek 
the  warmth  of  the  stable.  A  cold,  north-east  wind  whist 
ling,  rushes  by. 

Adieu,  my  beautiful  past  1    Adieu,  my  memories  t 


THE 

HEAVENLY   HORIZONS. 


THE  HEATENLY  HORIZONS. 

[E  who  elbow  each  other  aside  in  the  crowd  of  the 
world,  destined  perhaps  never  to  meet  again ; 
we,  whom  opposite  positions,  and  often  opposite 
characters,  so  widely  separate,  are,  nevertheless,  bound  to 
gether,  as  in  one  sheaf,  by  the  one  fact — death. 

Men  die  :  we  shall  die ;  and  it  is  not  to  teach  you  this 
that  I  open  my  lips ;  but  all  and  each,  we  carry  in  the 
silence  of  our  hearts  the  poignant  remembrance  of  one 
loved  and  lost :  it  is  there  that  I  find  a  bond  of  union  be 
tween  you  and  me,  such  as,  at  any  instant,  may  make  the 
same  tears  start  to  our  eyes,  and  blend  together  in  one 
sentiment  of  grief,  and  also  of  profound  love,  our  souls  till 
then  strangers  to  each  other. 

Who  is  it  that  has  not  wept  1  Who  is  it  that  has  not 
sunk  down  before  that  couch,  where  reposes,  without  voice, 
without  a  look,  one  who  loved  him,  and  whom  he  loved  1 
Where  is  the  man  who  has  not  walked  solitary  after  walk 
ing  step  with  step,  two  together  ? 

Alas !  this  terrible  reality  of  grief !  Some  find  it 
strange.  To  them  the  idea  appears  unusual,  rare.  To  me 
it  is  the  most  actual  and  familiar  of  things ;  it  would  seem 
to  me  most  strange  to  pass  a  day  without  thinking  of  it. 

Besides,  does  any  one  restrain  himself  from  loving? 
Can  we  say  to  the  heart — Thou  shalt  not  remember  ? 
Would  we  say  it  ?  And  from  that  hour,  when  a  cherished 
being  who  was  ours,  has  quitted  life,  are  there  not  certain 

M 


1 78  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

questionings,  consuming  problems,  which  for  ever  rise  be 
fore  us  ? 

These  agitate  the  soul  day  and  night.  Unresolved,  they 
make  our  torture.  And  woe  to  him  who  escapes  by  for 
getting  them ;  he  escapes,  but  by  a  sort  of  moral  forfeiture 
and  degradation ,  he  has  committed  treason  against  his 
soul.  Better  that  they  should  live  and  torture  us,  than 
that  we  should  purchase  ease  by  their  oblivion. 

And  now,  tell  me,  does  not  a  profound  ennui  of  mortal 
life  fall  on  you  as  you  advance  ?  Do  you  not  feel  your 
self  ill  of  this  most  fatal  malady,  the  incapacity  to  be 
happy  ? 

We  are  for  the  most  part  fatigued  wrestlers,  captives 
greedy  of  the  open  air,  perturbed  creatures,  thirsting  for 
peace. 

In  all  this  discontent  there  is,  no  doubt,  some  weakness 
or  error  to  be  combated.  But  I  also  find  in  it  an  ardent 
aspiration  for  the  skies. 

There  are  days  which  rise  sadly,  which  proceed  without 
the  sun,  which  are  extinguished  without  a  glow.  The 
trees  are  leafless ;  the  fields  have  no  verdure ;  clouds  hang 
their  dark-gray  folds  on  every  side  of  the  horizon.  And 
our  life  has  these  pallors,  these  glooms.  A  disgust  of  all 
things  invades  the  soul ;  a  disgust  of  ourselves,  a  hundred 
times  greater  than  of  others ;  the  wretchedness  of  a  combat 
where  defeat  has  followed  on  defeat ;  secret  shocks  to  oui 
faith  itself.  Oh,  in  these  moments,  how  we  sigh  for  our 
deliverance  ;  for  the  splendour  of  truth  ;  for  the  hallelujah 
of  the  skies  ! 

You  have  known  these  mortal  languors ;  you  have 
breathed  these  sighs;  you  have  raised  your  hands  to 
heaven,  while  the  tears  of  an  exile  rolled  down  your  cheek- 
Well,  these  torturing  questions,  I  attempt  to  answer 


TEE  HE  A  VENLY  HORIZONS.  179 

them ;  tLese  tears,  I  come  to  take  from  them  their  bitter 
ness. 

Who  am  I  that  speak  ?  It  matters  little.  You  know 
me  not.  Better  thus ;  the  false  appearances  we  wear  to 
each  other  hinders  many  a  thought  from  reaching  the 
heart. 

I  have  loved;  I  love.  I  have  suffered;  I  shall  suffer. 
Many  an  object  of  my  tenderness  has  passed  behind  the 
veil.  I  have  known  those  nights  peopled  with  phantoms 
which  descend  upon  the  soul  of  the  mourner.  Remorse 
that  comes  too  late  ;  cries  uttered  to  an  inexorable  silence  ; 
anguish  and  doubts,  revolt  itself,  and  that  prostration  worse 
than  death — I  have  known  them  all. 
/The  consolations  of  friends  might  affect  and  move  me, 
j6*ould  not  cure.  They  could  not  restore  the  dear  face,  the 

/voice,  the  heart  that  wrapt  me  in  its  love.     It  was  that  I 

1  wanted ;  of  what  avail  all  else  ? 

I  Or  if  some  word  uttered  brought  me  hope,  was  that 
word  a  truth  ?  Could  I  lean  upon  it,  sure  that  it  would 
not  break  and  pierce  the  heart  1  Are  there  not  beautiful 
errors  more  cruel  than  the  harshest  truth  1 

Then  I  sought  honestly,  passionately,  for  light.  And 
light  which  descends  from  heaven  has  flooded  me  with 
happiness.  As  lips  burning  with  thirst  have  hung  over 
the  fresh  pure  water  flowing  from  the  rock,  so  have  I  hung 
over  the  Scriptures  of  God ;  there,  in  long  draughts  I  have 
quenched  my  thirst. 

Do  not  be  alarmed.  I  am  no  theologian.  I  do  not 
undertake  to  teach  you.  Let  me  simply  take  your  hand — 
that  hand  which  trembles;  which  is  still  wet  with  the  tears 
it  has  striven  in  vain  to  stop.  Come,  let  us  talk  together 
of  those  who  are  gone.  Come,  we  will  together  unfold  our 
wings ;  we  will  together  go  into  the  land  of  life. 


180  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

You  demand  them  of  the  vast  unknown  regions  of  space. 
Oh,  you  will  wander  there  for  ever,  cold  at  heart !  Or, 
wearied,  seized  with  terror,  you  will  sit  down  immovable, 
your  head  covered  with  sackcloth  and  ashes,  and  remem 
bering  nothing  but  the  days  that  were.  I  know  where 
they  are,  our  best  beloved  !  I  have  seen  them.  This  is  no 
dream.  Neither  is  it  ecstasy,  or  the  revelations  of  a  seer 
that  I  have  to  offer ;  but  the  good  promises  of  God. 

On  my  part,  nothing.  I  am  nothing,  can  do  nothing, 
possess  nothing.  But,  on  the  part  of  my  God,  much  : 
assurance  of  life,  assurance  of  reunion,  assurance  of  eterna! 
love. 

If  this  little  book  gives  courage  to  some  dejected  pil 
grim;  if  it  brings  under  the  sunbeam  some  countenance 
unaccustomed  to  the  light ;  if  it  relieves  by  an  infallible 
hope  some  heart  in  its  affliction ;  if,  like  a  fertilising  dew, 
it  should  fall  on  some  spirit  hardened  by  distress, — my 
God,  I  shall  thank  Thee  for  one  of  the  greatest  happinesses 
of  an  existence  in  which  Thou  hast  jningleci  much  joy  with 
many  tears ! 


PAET  FIRST, 


TO  WHOM  I  SPEAK. 

)U  know  already,  it  is  to  those  that  weep. 
But  I  must  return  to  this. 
One  thing  has  always  made  me  shudder :  the 
rapidity  of  the  last  departure;   the  character  of  sudden 
ness,  joined  with  that  of  the  irretrievable. 

If  there  were  no  future  life,  such  disruptions,  violent, 
absolute,  would  be  a  fearful  irony  on  the  part  of  God,  who 
would  have  united  us  intimately  with  other  beings,  to 
break  us  asunder  at  a  moment,  and  plunge  us  and  plunge 
them  in  an  abyss  of  darkness  and  oblivion. 

Do  what  we  will,  a  day  arrives  when,  without  prepara 
tion,  without  adieus,  your  loved  one  is  gone. 

When  he  quitted  you  for  a  week,  for  a  day,  (if  you  loved 
much,  for  some  hours,)  what  caresses  were  interchanged, 
what  charges  given,  and  how  you  kept  in  your  memory  his 
last  precious  words  !  And  yet  you  had  letters,  those  mes 
sengers  which  bring  to  us  the  thought,  almost  the  look  and 
voice  of  the  absent.  He  now  quits  you  never  to  return  ; 
he  will  speak  no  more  ;  he  will  write  no  more.  He  whose 
heart  vibrated  to  the  least  sigh  of  yours — oh,  your  most 
passionate  appeals  will  not  extract  one  word  from  him,  not 
one  !  He  has  left  you  ;  his  soul  has  escaped  from  you ;  his 
mouth  and  yours  must  be  mute  for  evermore. 


132  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

The  exhaustion  produced  by  grief,  the  fear  of  giving 
language  to  your  sentiments — how  shall  I  describe  it  ? — the 
terror  of  finding  yourself  face  to  face  with  death, — every 
thing  had  paralysed  you.  And  then,  when  he  was  gone, 
who  should  have  heard  them,  how  the  cries  of  the  heart 
burst  forth  ! — what  ardent  words ;  what  embraces  ;  what 
agony  of  supplication ! 

Even  if  you  had  talked  together  of  the  coming  separa 
tion,  if  you  had  gathered  as  a  treasure  every  broken  phrase 
that  fell  from  his  dying  lips,  even  thus  prepared,  you  were 
not  prepared.  Death  held  its  great  surprise  still  in  reserve. 
And  when  all  was  over,  you  stood  astonished,  smitten,  dis 
mayed,  on  a  threshold  you  could  not  pass. 

There  is  in  death  a  sovereign  dignity ;  the  solemnity  of 
a  life  concluded.  The  hour  has  struck;  earthly  activity 
has  ceased, — the  eternal,  with  the  irrevocable,  succeeds. 

In  one  point  of  view,  it  is  a  simple  and  facile  thing. 
Every  day  we  see  the  light  of  a  lamp  extinguished.  It 
was,  and  it  is  not ;  a  breath  of  air  sufficed.  And  so  one 
dies.  Pain  and  agony,  these  are  not  death.  Death  is  one 
simple  fact.  A  flame,  as  it  seemed,  hovered  over  the  brov* 
of  the  dying,  and  it  disappeared ;  this  is  all  It  might  a^ 
easily  return.  But  it  does  not  return.  Here  is  the  sole 
horror  of  death. 

I  find  in  this  last  hour  a  strange  sentiment  of  respect  for 
the  dead,  mingled  with  grief ;  a  reverence  for  one  who  has 
gone  forth  on  this  mysterious  passage.  Passage  full  of 
mysteries  which  we  too,  however,  shall  one  day  tread. 

He  who  has  gone  forth  could  not  be  supported  on  his 
solitary  path  by  any  love  of  ours.  A  stronger  arm  was 
needful  He  had  our  prayers,  yes !  and  our  last  adieus. 
But  there  comes  a  moment  when  the  eyes  cease  to  see,  and 
the  ears  to  hear,  when  there  is  a  silence  and  a  halt  bet 


TO   WHOM  I  SPEAK.  183 

the  two  regions  of  life.  It  is  a  moment  which  God,  in  His 
compassion,  has  reserved  for  Himself.  We,  with  our  hearts 
racked  with  grief,  stand  watching  the  darkness  of  night  as 
it  descends  upon  him.  We  extend  our  arms,  we  cannot 
help  it,  as  if  to  retain  him ;  but  He  who  wills  to  take,  has 
taken. 

Happy,  a  thousand  times  happy,  those  on  whose  pale 
brow  has  descended  the  peace  of  heaven  ! — God's  pardon 
written  in  lines  of  light. 

Now  all  is  finished. 

Where  art  thou?  Thou  whom  I  no  longer  possess; 
thou  who  liest  there,  inert,  and  near  to  me  1  Ah !  what 
passes  in  thee  when  thine  eyes  are  fixed  and  thy  mouth 
closed,  and  there  is  the  celestial  smile  illuminating  the 
countenance  1  Let  me  follow ;  let  me,  too,  pass  behind 
the  veil;  some  splendours  escape  from  beneath  it;  my 
soul  burns  in  me,  ior  thou  art  there. 

Patience  !  my  child  !  Weep,  remember,  pray !  Soon 
thy  hour,  too,  will  come. 

At  this  time  we  rest  in  the  presence  of  death,  in  one  of 
its  hideous  aspects — destruction. 

The  delight  of  our  eyes  has  become  an  object  of  terror ; 
things  inanimate  retain  their  form,  the  body  of  our  beloved 
falls  into  dissolution ;  and  the  world  pursues  its  course,  and 
the  sun  shines,  and  fields  blossom,  and  friends  themselves, 
saddened  for  a  little  time,  link  themselves  afresh  with  the 
living ;  facts  like  these  fall  one  after  the  other  upon  the 
heart 

There  are  men  whom  they  revolt,  there  are  men  whom 
they  crush  ;  many  forget,  none  are  consoled. 

Thank  Heaven,  there  are  some  who  do  not  wish  to  be 
thus  consoled, — who  do  not  wish  to  be  pacified  by  the  hard 
reasoning  of  egotism.  They  do  not  wish  tx:  bow  before 


184  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

the  inevitable  fact  simply  because  it  is  a  fact  and  is  inevi 
table.  Neither  do  they  wrap  themselves  in  the  indifference 
of  mysticism.  Their  full  and  energetic  hearts,  retaining  all 
their  affections,  love  in  death, — love,  suffering,  as  before 
they  loved,  joyous,  in  life. 

It  is  a  hateful  philosophy,  this  submission,  without  a 
faith,  to  the  tyrannies  of  reality.  Rather  revolt,  rather 
c] amour  for  the  lost,  rather  seek  him  madly  under  the 
skies;  perhaps,  in  our  desperation,  we  shall  meet  the 
Saviour  Jesus,  and  He  will  restore  him  to  us. 

Terrible  temptations  await  us — Christians  as  well  as 
others — when  we  sit  down  on  the  borders  of  the  tomb.  It 
is  there  that  the  great  enemy  of  our  race,  he  who  accuses 
us  incessantly,  is  to  be  found ;  it  is  there  that  he  calum 
niates  God  before  our  face. 

In  this  consists  the  really  infernal  in  his  character,  that 
pity  cannot  touch  him.  He  sees  us  overwhelmed  with 
grief,  and,  at  one  bound,  he  is  on  us,  and  fixes  his  talons 
in  our  throbbing  breasts  ! 

"  You  prayed — you  implored  God  for  his  recovery — you 
had  faith  in  Him.  He  has  said,  '  Ask  and  I  will  give/ 
What  has  He  given  you  1  Nature  takes  her  undeviating 
course,  all  things  in  the  world  proceed  according  to  their 
own  laws,  your  prayer  but  breaks  against  an  immutable 
fate.  Your  beloved  one,  will  you  ever  see  him  ?  or  with 
what  form,  and  in  what  region  ?  Will  he  love  you  there  1 
And  you,  in  ten  years,  in  twenty,  are  you  sure  of  loving 
him?" 

Such  thought  is  worse  than  death. 

But  I  know  a  state  of  mind  still  more  lamentable,  that 
of  utmost  languor. 

In  despair  there  is  life,  activity ;  there  is  an  infinite  in 
an  infinite  sorrow;  in  despondency  there  is  a  sombre 


TO  WHOM  I  SPEAK.  185 

poetry  on   which  the  soul  secretly  feasts ;  this  languor  is 
near  to  annihilation, 

Oh,  well  I  have  known  her — thiy  ghostly  visitant  with 
pallid  face  that  comes  and  crouches  near  the  cold  hearth  of 
the  little  chamber  where  a  widow  weeps.  At  her  approach 
the  last  ember  is  extinguished,  everything  grows  cold  and 
lira — even  memory.  Then  it  seems  that  the  soul,  like  a 
bird  of  night,  traces  the  same  circle  again  and  again  in  a 
cavern  where  no  light  penetrates.  Always  the  same  ques 
tions,  monotonous,  incessantly  repeated,  without  effort  to 
sseek,  without  hope  to  find  an  answer. 

This  is  the  hour  for  consolatory  friends. 

A  poor  heart  in  its  grief  resembles  a  wounded  man 
stretched  along  the  road,  a  prey  to  the  charity  of  all 
passers.  All  wish  him  well ;  all  do  him  ill.  This  turns 
him  over,  that  raises  him  up ;  he  moans,  it  matters  not ; 
we  know  better  than  he  what  he  wants. 

Into  an  afflicted  soul  the  crowd  thinks  it  has  a  right  to 
enter ;  it  is  like  a  conquered  city.  The  new  comers  over 
turn  everything;  carry  off,  bring  in,  derange,  arrange; — 
protestations  are  of  no  avail ;  besides,  they  are  so  feeble, 
(mere  sighs  of  pain,)  that  they  are  scarcely  heard. 

Health  possesses  a  vital  energy  that  repels  all  poisons ; 
it  will  only  assimilate  what  is  suitable.  The  sick  man 
yields  to  all,  and  suffers  from  all. 

/It  is  a  grievous  spectacle  these  barbarous  invasions, — 
\yell  intended,  most  of  them ;  but  very  unseasonable,  and 
very  afflictive. 

Each  one  is  for  shaping  anew  this  poor  soul,  and  casting 
it  in  its  own  mould.  Light-hearted  people  speak  of  Time, 
and  how  it  sweeps  and  effaces,  with  the  folds  of  its  robe, 
every  mournful  image.  Kinder  spirits  speak  of  the  virtues 
of  the  deceased,  and  pronounce  him  happy.  Peace-loving 


186  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

men,  whom  long  regrets  fatigue,  remark  that  lie  was  well 
nursed,  lias  been  decorously  mourned,  that  every  propriety 
has  been  observed,  and  that  now  the  living  must  be  thought 
of.  Prosaic,  narrow-minded  men,  finding  this  soul  pros 
trate  on  the  earth,  would  rivet  it  there  for  ever, — would 
tear  off  its  wings  for  fear  it  should  escape  from  them 
After  having  lost  what  he  loved,  the  sufferer — last  misery  : 
— loses  himself.  He  loses  his  liberty,  his  individuality  ; 
he  no  longer  knows  himself. 

Of  all  distressful  consolations,  the  worst  are  those  wine!;. 
coming  truly  from  man,  pretend  to  be  derived  from 
heaven. 

The  heart  is  open  to  receive  these  pious  counsels ;  the 
sob  is  stifled,  grief  itself  is  silent ;  they  speak,  and  they 
leave  you  more  distracted,  not  less  miserable. 

For  you  had  counted  on  God,  on  His  sympathy,  on  His 
help,  on  some  miracle  of  love  He  might  still  hold  in  re 
serve  ;  and  is  it  not  the  love  of  God  that  alone  sheds  a 
light  on  the  mysteries  of  this  world  ?  And  behold  !  they 
bring  you  a  god  of  petty  jealousies,  or  a  god  who  demands 
joy  of  a  heart  transpierced,  or  a  calculating  god,  who  en 
joins  you  to  love  none  but  him,  because  he  alone  dies  not ! 

Oh,  how  often  have  I  heard — dinned  into  the  ears  of 
some  poor  dejected  creature,  whose  head  is  buried  in  his 
hands,  who  is  incapable  of  resisting  the  aggressions  of  their 
falsehood— such  words  as  these  :  "The  Eternal  commands 
that  we  love  Him  only ;  He  must  reign  alone  ;  He  breaks 
all  idols!" 

The  poor  soul  would  answer  that  his  father,  that  his 
child,  was  not  an  idol ;  that  his  love  ascended  in  grateful 
prayers  to  Him  who  gave  them  ;  but  he  cannot  speak.  A 
fear  has  fallen  upon  him.  Already  his  God  turns  on  him 
a  menacing  aspect ;  his  heart  sinks  within  him. 


TO  WHOM  I  SPEAK.  187 

In  the  war  that  you  have  kindled  between  God  and  his 
regret,  which  will  be  the  conqueror  1  Whichever  conquers, 
the  soul  will  lose  by  the  contest.  If  your  God  triumphs, 
it  is  because  your  soul,  crushed  by  fear,  has  betrayed  its 
love ;  if  your  regret,  it  is  because  you  have  measured  your 
self  with  God,  and  resisted  Him. 

See  how  careful  we  should  be  when  we  speak  in  the 
name  of  God ! 

God  will  not  permit  idols,  but  God  permits  strong  affec 
tions.  He  has  made  our  hearts  for  them ;  He  has  made 
them  for  the  human  heart.  God  wills  that  we  love  Him 
with  all  our  energy,  but  to  reign  He  has  no  need  to  create 
a  void.  If  He  afflicts,  it  is  that  affliction  is  good  for  us. 
The  furnace  is  good,  if  the  gold  can  be  no  otherwise  puri 
fied. 

Do  not  transfer  our  own  little  passions  to  God.  In  our 
happiness,  such  a  God  degrades  us.  We  rather  counterfeit 
a  love  for  Him  than  feel  it.  In  our  misery,  such  a  repre 
sentation  of  the  Divine  Being  revolts  us  or  overwhelms  us ; 
in  either  case  it  separates  us  from  the  true  God. 

Others  say  to  you,  "  Do  not  weep ;  God  does  not  will 
that  you  should  weep.  Rejoice !  He  desires  a  glad 
heart." 

Such  men,  in  fact,  are  wearied  with  a  prolonged  sorrow. 
They  cannot  understand  it ;  they  have  a  certain  vague 
terror  of  it.  Therefore,  be  content.  Your  husband,  it  is 
true,  is  dead ;  but  God  does  all  for  the  best.  Believe  in 
Him,  and  sing  a  hymn  of  gratitude. 

This  is  to  kill  the  heart. 

God  wills  that  we  should  live  !  And  for  the  very  fulness 
of  life  He  says,  loeep  !  Weep,  but  not  as  those  who  arc 
vnthout  hope. 

Our  bereavements  nust  be  sorrows,  if  the  gifts  of  God, 


18-8  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

Jove  and  life,  are  joys.  If  God  strikes  us,  it  is  that  we 
should  feel.  Without  doubt,  even  in  the  trial  itself  ia 
found  I  know  not  what  penetrating  sweetness  ;  I  have  fell 
it  even  at  that  moment  when  I  sunk  prostrate  under  the 
hand  of  God.  But  this  is  not  a  joy  that  bursts  out  in 
cries  of  victory  and  gladness.  The  joy  I  felt,  poor  vacillat 
ing  light,  sheltered  itself  in  the  recesses  of  my  heart,  and 
threw  its  pale  glory  before  me  as  I  knelt,  and,  with  face 
bidden  in  my  hands,  wept  on  in  silence. 

I  know  a  man  who  wept  thus. 

Job  did  not  say  that  the  gifts  of  the  Eternal  were  a 
snare ;  he  did  not  congratulate  himself  that  his  riches  had 
been  taken  away,  and  his  sons  destroyed.  The  Eternal  had 
given  1  it  was  gift.  The  Eternal  had  taken  away  I  it  was 
privation.  Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord ! 

Job  cast  himself  upon  the  earth.  Utmost  suffering,  ut 
most  adoration. 

Seeing  him  thus,  the  Eternal  pointed  him  out  to  Satan, 
prostrate  in  sorrow,  prostrate  in  obedience  :  "  Hast  thou 
considered  my  servant  Job,  who  has  not  Ms  equal  upon 
the  earth?" 

What  made  Job  to  sin,  you  know  it  well,  was  not  the 
malignant  ulcer,  the  la?t  of  his  calamities.  Even  then  he 
uttered  no  word  of  reproach  to  God.  What  exasperated 
him  were  the  bitter  consolations,  the  inhuman  counsels  of 
his  friends.  Under  this  scourge,  and  bleeding  from  their 
hands,  in  the  freshness  of  his  wounds  he  rais&J,  himself, 
and  was  angry  even  with  his  God. 

From  want  of  reflection,  from  that  idleness  which  goes 
on  repeating  pious  phrases  without  considering  their  mean 
ing,  perhaps,  too,  from  the  influence  of  a  certain  mysticism, 
*here  are  men  who,  in  the  most  spiritual  manner,  preach 
*ie  purest  egotism. 


TO  WHOM  I  SPEAK.  189 

Health  does  not  last ;  to  value  it  highly  is  to  make  a 
l-.«id  calculation.  Riches  depart;  to  cling  to  them  is  to 
make  a  bad  calculation.  Glory  passes ;  to  fix  your  heart 
rpon  it  is  to  make  a  bad  calculation.  Science  deceives  ; 
to  devote  yourself  to  it  is  to  make  a  bad  calculation.  Hus 
band,  wife,  children,  often  betray,  and  always  die;  to 
,.l:tach  yourself  to  them  is  to  make  a  bad  calculation.  In 
one  word,  he  who  loves  the  creature  calculates  ill.  The 
good  and  infallible  calculation  is,  to  love  God,  and  to  love 
Him  only.  God  does  not  die,  God  does  not  deceive.  God, 
moreover,  is  master  of  us  alL  Look  well  at  the  balance ; 
examine  and  decide.  It  is  simple  as  the  rule  of  three; 
peremptory  as  arithmetic. 

I  state  bluntly  what  is  expressed,  perhaps,  with  more 
precaution. 

Without  pausing  to  contest  an  argument  which  seems  to 
assimilate  the  immortal  souls  of  others  to  perishable  objects, 
without  resting  on  that  word  creature,  so  disdainfully  ap 
plied  to  all  that  is  not  myself— let  me  say  at  once,  that  I 
find  in  this  motive  to  detach  myself  from  man,  and  give 
myself  to  God,  something  so  repulsive,  that  my  whole 
moral  nature  rises  up  against  it. 

The  more  generous  my  heart,  the  more  tenderly,  the 
more  closely  shall  I  embrace  a  treasure  of  which  you  shew 
me  the  fragility. 

What !  because  your  affection  may  not  be  as  constant  as 
mine  !  What !  because  you  will  die,  dear  friend,  shall  I 
withdraw  one  particle  of  my  love  ?  No,  a  thousand  times. 
My  glory  is  to  love  more  him  who  loves  less ;  my  consola 
tion  is  to  love  beyond  death  itself. 

Love  is  the  destroyer  of  all  egotisms — of  the  spiritual 
egotism  as  of  others.  He  it  is  who  enters  into  the  last 
asylum,  and  breaks  the  last  idol.  And  when  the  heart 


190  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

is  thus   sanctified,  it  becomes   prepared   for   an   eternal 
love. 

My  whole  nature  sries  out  against  such  reasoning.  In 
the  name  of  all  moral  dignity,  I  declare  myself  superior  to 
your  calculations.  In  the  sublimity  of  moral  freedom,  I 
prefer  misery  with  the  integrity  of  my  sentiments,  to  con 
tentment  with  this  mutilation  ;  I  seize  my  treasures,  those 
treasures  of  the  heart  you  would  snatch  from  me,  I  embrace, 
I  maintain,  I  vindicate  them. 

"  Love  thy  father,  and  thy  mother,  and  thy  wife ;  love 
them  with  all  thy  strength,  but  love  God  more.  He  is  thy 
God,  He  is  their  God;  He  loves  them,  He  loves  thee. 
Never  in  the  utmost  altitude  of  thy  affections  wilt  tlum 
rise  to  the  height  of  that  love  ! "  Hold  such  language  as 
this  to  me,  and  my  heart  feels  that  you  speak  truth ;  my 
soul  obeys,  and  at  the  same  time  takes  wider  sweep. 
You  have  subdued  me,  but  you  have  aggrandised ;  you 
have  conquered  by  raising  me  to  the  skies. 

Alas  !  many  amongst  us  never  raise  their  thoughts  to 
the  skies.  Heaven  would  be  strange  to  them ;  they  rest 
on  the  earth,  where  they  soon  reconcile  themselves.  For 
one  instant  the  traveller  stops,  looks  about  him,  thinking 
on  which  side  his  companion  has  disappeared,  then  prepares 
himself  for  solitude,  shoulders  his  pack  again,  and  makes 
the  best  of  it. 

After  all,  there  is  very  little  need  to  teach  men  egotism  ; 
they  have  most  of  them  taken  their  degree  in  that  philo 
sophy. 

To  gather  myself  together,  and  fall  in  the  softest  place, 
when  a  fall  is  inevitable  ;  to  throw  the  cargo  into  the  sea 
if  the  winds  are  tempestuous,  and  to  steer  close  to  the  land, 
— we  are  all  more  or  less  capable  of  this. 

Oil,  yon.  who  after  ten,  after  twenty  years  of  absence, 


TO  WHOM  I  SPEAK.  191 

weep  with,  hope,  and  hope  in  weeping, — I  respect  you  from 
the  bottom  of  my  soul.  Yoa  are  the  true  lovers,  you  are 
the  truly  happy. 

One  thing  seems  horrible  to  me  in  my  sorrow  :  to  think 
that  it  may  have  an  end ;  that  some  commonplace  well- 
being  may  replace  it,  that  we  may  learn  to  dispense  with 
what  was  once  our  life  ;  that  a  little  vulgar  existence,  with 
its  repasts  at  stated  hours,  and  its  customary  trivial  plea 
sures,  shall  fill  the  void  in  the  heart  made  by  the  loss  of 
the  dearest  friend — so  that  if  he  returned  we  should  not 
know  where  to  place  him.  There  is  something  in  this 
which  might  well  draw  from  Ecclesiastes,  one  of  those  cries 
he  uttered  when  proclaiming  the  vanity  of  human  lif e  : — 

Life  is  short,  swift  as  a  sunbeam  ;  let  us  rejoice  !  The 
wind  has  swept  away  our  tent ;  let  us  build  again  on  the 
shifting  sands  ! 

Do  not  think  I  am  an  idolater  of  grief ;  I  am  not.  Only 
I  will  not  make  a  god  of  "  happiness  at  all  price."  I  know 
well  that  we  must  live  upon  the  earth,  and  finish  our 
career,  but  I  choose  to  walk  with  the  image  of  my  absent 
friend  :  always  we  are  two. 

Our  levity  abashes  me,  mine  more  than  yours ;  this  in 
curable  egotism,  this  aridity  that  I  find  in  the  most  secret 
places  of  the  heart.  Even  there  a  hard  determination  con 
ceals  itself  to  make  the  best  of  whatever  happens. 

God  has  overthrown  me ;  I  will  rise  again  ;  we  shall  see 
who  is  the  stronger.  God  has  taken  from  me  the  child  of  my 
joy,  or  my  father,  or  my  wife ;  I  will  do  without  them.  I 
will  subdue  my  calamity,  not  by  the  power  of  a  faich  which, 
grasping  the  loved  beings,  constrains  them  to  remain,  not 
by  the  effort  of  a  patience  which  has  learned  to  wait,  but  by 
a  careless,  practical  stoicism — by  a  s/ecret  defiance  of  the 
decrees  of  Providen  ^e. 


1 9  '2  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

I  do  not  blame  the  man  who  has  suffered  much,  because 
his  heart  lies  open  to  new  pleasures  ;  because  the  opening 
flower,  or  the  blue  Avaters  of  the  lake,  or  Spring,  or  Autumn, 
revive  the  smile  upon  his  lips.  Nothing  in  all  this  disturbs 
me.  That  tender  thoughts,  and  other  loves,  should  kindle 
in  the  solitary  bosom,  does  not  revolt  me.  What  fills  me 
with  sadness  is  that  condition  of  the  soul  in  which  the 
lost  friend,  gone  joys  and  griefs  of  the  past,  have  taken 
rank  with  things  perfectly  indifferent — in  which  if  one 
should  come  to  you  and  say,  He  is  there  !  you  would  find 
yourself  more  embarrassed  than  delighted.  The  comfort 
able  house  built  on  the  extinction  of  a  great  love — this  J 
cannot  see  without  a  blush. 

Grief  is  a  flower  as,  delicate  and  prompt  to  fade  as  happi 
ness.  Still  it  does  not  wholly  die.  Like  the  magic  rose, 
dried,  and  unrecognisable,  a  warm  air  breathed  on  it  will 
suffice  to  renew  its  bloom. 

Often  when  the  lips  smile  the  heart  is  sad.  Those  who 
/  appear  to  forget  sometimes  remember  better  than  ostenta 
tious  mourners. 

In  many  of  us  there  are  two  men.  The  one  is  active, 
rushes  hither  and  thither  upon  his  business,  diverts  himself 
gaily  and  noisily ;  the  other,  passive,  dreaming,  and  de 
pressed,  turns  to  the  hours  that  have  fled.  This  last  walka 
and  weeps  upon  the  old  paths.  He  stops,  he  recalls  a  look, 
he  pursues  a  phantom.  Here  we  sat  together,  and  her 
voice  trembled ;  there,  fatigued,  she  leant  upon  me ;  that 
evening  she  was  sad,  and  we  prayed  God  to  leave  us  on 
the  earth  together ;  that  other  morning  she  was  gay,  and 
all  the  world  was  happy — Heaven  seemed  to  have  de 
scended  upon  us. 

Because  you  see  in  such  a  one  the  eyes  reanimated, 
the  ir.ind  resuming  its  old  labours,  life  returning  to  this 


TO  WHOM  I  SPEAK.  193 

accustomed  track,  you  say,  What  is  finished  is  finished, 
and  the  dead  are  dead. 

No. 

/  After  those  first  days  when  the  separation  rends  the 
heart — word  of  terrible  fidelity  ! — and  when  the  torn  heart 
cannot  conceal  its  wounds,  there  comes  a  reaction.  A 
strong  desire  for  solitude  possesses  the  soul ;  a  bashful- 
ness  and  jealousy  fall  upon  it;  intruders  are  repelled;  the 
chamber  of  death  is  closed ;  one  displays  a  stolid  front 
that  denies  all, — tortures,  memories.  But  within  there 
are  lights  burning  round  the  shrine ;  and  a  casual  word 
makes  the  heart  bleed,  while  the  lips  discourse  of  some 
indifferent  matter,  or  are  seen  to  smile. 

There  are  secret  communications  with  a  departed  loved 
one  which  the  most  compassionate  listener  would  profane. 
At  these  times  we  are  prodigal  of  expressions  of  tenderness, 
which  wre  should  have  withheld,  perhaps,  in  life.  There  is 
pardon  asked,  there  are  passionate  avowals,  utterances  so 
thrilling  and  so  sweet,  that  even  the  voice  of  a  friend 
echoing  them  would  jar  upon  us. 

Oblivion  !  Oh,  you  deceive  yourself  !  Not  oblivion, 
but  a  sanctuary,  a  holy  of  holies,  over  which  the  wings  ara 
folded. 

Even  the  light-hearted  man  remembers.  A  voice 
ascends  from  the  past,  low  arid  soft ;  a  word  confided,  the 
pressure  of  a  hand  in  pain,  some  sudden  recollection  bids 
the  tears  to  flow.  His  heart  beats,  he  embraces  in  imagi 
nation  the  cherish  ad  image  ;  she  is  his,  she  is  not  dead ; 
the  affections  of  the  past  still  survive.  It  is  ^ood  for  him 
that  he  suffers  thus. 

Old  men,  chilled  with  age,  whu  are  said  to  be  indifferent 
to  the  loss  of  friends, — do  you  believe  that  it  is  egotism,  or 
some  paralysis  of  heart,  that  keeps  back  their  tears  ?  I  do 


194  THE  HEAVENLY 

not  think  so.  The  old  man  sheds  few  tears,  afflicts  him 
self  little,  because  the  old  man  knows  that  he  has  little 
time  to  regret  the  separation. 

When  young,  our  years  are  ages ;  in  mature  life  they 
are  each  three  hundred  and  sixty -five  days ;  in  old  age, 
they  have  dwindled  to  a  few  weeks.  Time  is,  indeed,  the 
messenger  with  wings  at  his  feet.  Yesterday  he  took  my 
wife,  to-day  my  son,  to-morrow  he  will  take  me. 

No  desert  without  limits  extends  before  the  old  man. 
He  walks  beside  a  river  whose  banks  are  seen  to  approach ; 
a  diminishing  stream  separates  them  each  day  less  and  less ; 
and  on  the  opposite  bank  stand  wife  and  son,  with  arms 
outstretched  to  meet  him. 

In  fact,  for  the  believer,  at  these  last  limits  of  existence, 
joy  predominates  over  grief. 

We  who  feel  ourselves  weak,  and  are  humiliated  at  our 
own  levity, — we  who  would  prefer  a  thousand  times  to  be 
faithful  and  broken-hearted  than  to  be  frivolous  and  happy, 
— we  will  not  despair.  The  key  of  our  treasures  may  be  lost 
for  an  instant,  it  will  be  recovered.  He  who  keeps  our 
loved  ones  will  restore  them  to  us  ;  not  one  will  be  missing 
Our  heart  on  seeing  them  will  resume  all  its  pristine  love. 

It  is  but  the  silence  of  the  dead  which  makes  us  faith 
less  to  their  memory.  The  mind  is  weary  with  its  flight 
through  unknown  regions,  with  following  what  can  I  c 
never  reached.  It  flies  as  a  bird  in  the  night  over  a  land 
that  has  been  inundated  and  become  one  watery  waste. 

Why  is  it  that  you  see  so  distinctly  this  traveller  who 
has  quitted  you,  this  son  who  sails  in  the  Indian  Ocean, 
this  husband  trafficking  in  the  Far  West  ?  Why  do  they 
still  seem  near  to  you,  their  parting  counsels  still  heard, 
and  preparations  made  for  a  return,  Avhich  yet  is  very  dis 
tant  1  It  is  because  you  know  where  they  are.  You  cau 


TO   WHOM  I  SPEAK.  105 

follow  the  trauk  of  their  vessel,  or  the  course  of  their  cara 
van  ;  you  can  put  your  finger  on  the  map  and  say,  They 
are  there  !  You  trace  them  home,  and  forthwith  you  can 
make  arrangements,  even  to  the  minutest  detail,  for  a 
return  so  distinctly  imagined. 

Let  us  do  the  same  for  our  dead  ;  for  indeed  there  is  the 
same  certainty  of  their  return,  and  the  same  vivid  recogni 
tion  of  their  existence. 

But  those  celestial  regions ,  you  say,  are  so  vast,  so  vague ! 
Speak  to  us  of  shores  we  know,  and  which  they  knew ! 
And  yet,  if  you  speak  of  them,  our  hearts  break,  for  our 
friends  never  will  return.  There  is  no  hope.  There  is 
only  a  dream. 

For  me,  I  know  no  reality  more  true  than  this  dream. 

Dream  !  God  prepares  for  you  something  far  different. 
If  He  has  not  permitted  between  you  and  the  dead  that 
exchange  of  thoughts  for  which  you  sigh,  it  is  because,  if 
He  had,  death  would  not  have  been  death.  And  then,  we 
should  have  made  idols  of  our  loved  ones. 

I  know  a  courier,  swift  and  sure,  who  will  carry  us  to 
the  absent — Faith.  He  knows  the  road ;  have  no  fear,  he 
will  not  stumble  or  stray. 

For  us,  in  our  sorrow,  there  are  promises,  and  glacl 
intelligence  of  our  dead.  God  has  not  shut  them  up  in 
dark  prison-houses.  We  can  turn  our  eyes  to  the  land 
they  inhabit.  No  mirage,  the  country  exists.  No  poet's* 
rapture,  the  simplest  see  the  clearest. 

Gazing  on  that  land,  our  affections  will  take  new  life, 
and  the  bitterness  of  despair  will  vanish  :  and  when  we 
return  to  earth,  we  shall  bring  back  an  imperishable  joy  in 
our  hearts ;  we  shall  be  faithful  to  tho  dead  without  a 
murmur  of  revolt  against  God;  we  shall  1  e  grateful  with 
out  egotism — submissive,  not  oblivious. 


OF  WHOM  I  SPEAK. 

[HERE  are  two  great  truths  under  the  sun, — God's 
pardon,  and  His  justice. 

There  are  two  peoples  on  the  earth  :  a  people 
of  men  who  speak  different  languages,  and  live  in  different 
climates,  but  who  have  nil  felt  the  horror  of  sin,  and  the 
need  of  a  spiritual  help,  and  have  recognised,  as  accom 
plished  in  themselves,  the  work  of  the  Holy  Spirit ;  and 
another  people  very  different,  scoffers,  obdurate,  who  reject 
all  the  appeals,  open  or  mysterious,  of  the  Divine  grace. 
The  prayer  for  mercy  has  never  fallen  from  their  lips  ;  they 
laugh  at  the  idea  of  pardon,  they  cast  it  from  their  minds. 
With  this  last  people  I  do  not  occupy  myself. 

The  future  of  rebellious  spirits  presents  a  prospect,  the 
horror  of  which  1  would  on  no  account  diminish. 

I  was  not  made  for  such  a  subject. 

I  attach  myself  to  the  glorious  phalanx  of  the  redeemed. 
I  turn  towards  the  celestial  horizon ;  I  turn  towards  the 
light,  to  the  infinite  serenities,  to  the  love  without  limit, 
to  perfect  joy.  I  would  awaken  joy.  It  is  tins  we  want, 

l>v  a  redeemed  soul,  I  understand  the  man  who  lias  fell 
himself  guilty,  felt  himself  weak, — who  has,  in  utmost 
humility,  thrown  himself  before  the  Eternal,  murmuring, 
"  Have  mercy  on  me  !" 

But  you  who  mourn  departed  friends,  from  whose  mouth 
you  have  not  received  the  full  assurance  of  peace,  do  not 
you  turn  from  me.  If  I  cannot,  with  firm  hand,  point 


OF  WHOM  I  SPEAK.  197 

them  out  to  you  in  glory,  I  can  shew  you  something  mag 
nificent — a  rainbow  all  radiant  with  hope — the  love  of  our 
Saviour,  the  power  of  prayer,  the  free  and  royal  gift  of  an 
omnipotent  grace. 

Love  divine !  It  has  depths  we  cannot  follow.  Even 
here  below,  has  not  the  mother's  heart  felt  that  there  was 
an  inexhaustible  tenderness  which  surpassed  her  own  ? 

You  who  hang  over  the  little  cradle,  when  anxiety  for 
the  future  seizes  on  you,  and  you  grow  pale  before  enemies 
who  have  not  yet  revealed  themselves,  is  it  not  true  that 
one  single  thought  will  at  once  calm  you  ?  God  cherishes 
my  child,  and  this  my  tenderness  is  as  nothing  compared 
to  the  love  of  God  ! 

This  husband  or  this  mother  whom  T  mourn,  Jesus  has 
loved  them.  Who  shall  unfold  to  rne  the  mysteries  of 
this  love  ?  who  shall  limit  its  action  1  He  knows  all,  I 
nothing.  When  lost  in  grief,  I  can  neither  see  nor  com 
prehend  ;  He  sees,  He  loves,  and  He  is  the  Saviour. 

Permit  me  a  reminiscence  from  my  travels  in  the  East, 
which  will  never  be  effaced  from  my  mind. 

We  had  passed  Bethlehem,  we  had  passed  the  Pool  of 
Solomon  ;  we  had  been  traversing  for  a  long  time  solitary 
bills,  where  some  wild  herb  alone  moved  to  the  wind,  when, 
on  a  sudden,  ?  dark  line  cut  the  horizon.  It  enlarged,  it, 
approached,  it  defined  itself  in  battlements  ;  they  \verc  the 
walls  of  Jerusalem.  Behind  those  Avails  I  saw  there, — 
with  those  eyes  of  the  soul  that  look  out  beyond  the  present, 
— I  saw  the  grand  cross  of  Christ  arise  and  dominate  the 
city  and  dominate  tli3  world.  My  heart  swelled,  tears 
flowed  down  my  cheeli. 

An  immense  love,  an  unmeasured  pity  and  pardon  de 
scend  from  the  cross  upon  the  whole  earth.  Those  who 
refuse  it,  destroy  and  limit  it  for  themselves;  those  who 


198  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

hunger  and  thirst  for  it,  find  it  always  equal  to  their  aspi 
rations. 

Whosoever  calls  upon  God  will  be  saved.  Sublime 
words,  which,  descending  from  the  throne  of  God,  fall 
upon  our  lost  world,  and,  in  falling  on  it,  spread  a  universal 
light  ! 

I  recognise  no  formula  which  has  power  to  convert  men ; 
I  adore  a  Holy  Spirit  which,  under  every  sky,  can  tame 
the  pride  of  man,  and  throw  him  repentant  at  the  feet  of 
his  Creator. 

Jesus  died  for  all.  All  do  not  know  the  only  name  that 
saves.  Knowledge  must  come  from  without;  the  senti 
ment  of  our  guilt  and  misery  springs  from  the  heart. 
There  is  no  heart  beyond  the  circle  of  Divine  action. 

Every  soul  which  in  its  famine  cries  to  the  Eternal,  finds 
the  Eternal.  This  ineffable  cry,  uttered  in  whatsoever 
zone  or  epoch,  traverses  infinite  space,  and  sinks  in  the 
heart  of  Jesus. 

Without  doubt,  where  the  atmosphere  is  thick,  the  light 
is  feeble ;  without  doubt,  there  are  such  clouds  as  can 
obscure  the  day — such  ignorance  and  hardness  of  the  con 
science  as  reduce  man  to  the  condition  of  the  beasts ;  but 
the  power  of  God,  but  the  love  of  God, — here  are  my  two 
lamps  for  this  labyrinth.  I  am  ignorant  of  all,  God  knows 
all.  I  think  I  love,  but  I  love  nothing  as  He  loves.  My 
God,  who  has  made  the  heart,  can  alwa}-'s  touch  the  heart. 

Come,  contemplate  with  me  this  Divine  love  in  its 
plenitude,  as  it  acts  upon  some  poor  creature  in  the  hour 
of  death. 

I  would  not  encourage  the  idleness  or  the  indecision  of 
the  soul  The  man  who  has  a  long  time  refused  to  hear 
may  lose  the  power  of  hearing.  I  know  this  well.  But 
the  moment  also  may  come  when  the  lost  sheep,  called  in 


OF  WHOM  I  SPEAK.  199 

?ain  through  all  the  fertile  valley  of  the  earth,  may  answer 
at  length  out  of  the  sombre  valley  of  death.  It  is  thus 
God  seeks  his  simple  creatures  engaged  in  the  labours  of 
life,  weak,  ill  instructed,  but  with  a  heart  still  loyal  and 
just. 

In  an  instant  the  soul  is  transformed.  It  has  compre 
hended,  it  has  submitted,  it  has  prostrated  itself ;  God  has 
raised  it,  it  lives.  A  few  days,  a  few  hours  suffice ;  God, 
in  an  instant,  at  one  bound,  can  enable  it  to  pass  through 
the  intermediate  degrees.  Frozen,  it  burns  ;  lame,  it  runs ; 
rebellious  and  pusillanimous,  it  is  now  accomplished  in 
obedience  and  in  courage.  Leaving  veteran  Christians  be 
hind,  it  passes  all,  it  has  achieved  all ;  and,  nevertheless,  it 
is  itself,  with  its  own  individuality,  but  ripened  by  a  single 
glance  from  the  Divine  love. 

Jesus  has  done  this. 

What  He  said  to  the  soul  at  that  last  hour  I  know  not. 
What  I  have  seen  I  believe.  It  is  the  work  of  God. 

And  what  is  ours  1 

An  immense  power  is  given  us — a  direct  influence  on 
the  Governor  of  worlds — prayer. 

Shall  I  recall  the  promises  made  to  it  ?  We  have  our 
ears  filled  with  them,  but  what  they  announce  so  surpasses 
our  hope  that  we  do  not  believe  in  them. 

Infinite  goodness — poor  fallen  creatures  that  we  are  ! — 
finds  us  more  sceptical  than  infinite  justice. 

It  matters  not;  prayer  is  a  power;  and  if  on  earth  it 
lias  a  contested  authority,  it  rules  like  a  queen  in  heaven. 

God  dwells  far  off  from  us, — lost,  so  to  speak,  in  the 
height  of  the  empyrean.  Prayer  brings  Him  down 
amongst  us,  brings  Him  to  our  hearths,  and  links  His 
power  with  our  efforts. 

The  heart  of  this  man  repels  me,  but  all  "his  resistance 


200  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

disappears  before  a  Divine  tenderness.  My  words  irritated, 
this  can  move  and  assuage.  I  knc  w  not  how  to  constrain 
another  soul ;  there  is  One  who  leads  it  by  invisible  cords 
Events  defy  me ;  there  is  One  who  can  bend  them  to  His 
purpose.  He,  God  and  Father,  can  unite  in  one  focus  so 
many  scattered  beams,  that  the  darkest  soul  shall  be  sud 
denly  inundated  with  light,  and  the  coldest  heart  kindled 
with  love. 

I  do  not  destroy  the  freedom  of  man. 

Man  can  say  Yes ;  man  can  say  No. 

To  say  No,  knowing  that  it  is  the  Eternal  and  His 
pardon  that  is  refused — to  scorn  our  own  salvation,  with 
eyes  open  and  a  sane  mind — is  perhaps  that  frightful  sin 
of  which  it  is  written,  Pray  not  for  it. 

But  have  I  seen  or  known  such  culprits,  or  do  they 
exist  for  me  ?  God  excepted,  does  any  one  know  the 
hopeless?  For  me,  I  know  my  father,  my  mother,  my 
friend,  this  or  that  man ;  God  puts  into  my  heart  the  cry 
of  intercession  ;  and  if  I  hesitate,  the  same  God  says  to  me, 
Relieve ;  all  is  possible  to  him  who  has  faith. 

In  the  time  of  Jesus  there  were  paralytics  and  the  dying. 
They  could  not  of  themselves  go  to  Christ ;  their  wasted 
limbs  refused  to  carry  them  ;  they  knew  not  that  Jesus  was 
near  and  wished  to  cure  them.  There  were  even  the  dead 
who  could  not  stir.  Who,  then,  interceded  ?  who  besought 
the  Master  ?  A  father  for  his  daughter,  a  centurion  for 
his  slave.  And  Jesus  resuscitated  the  dead. 

What  we  want  is  faith.  The  holiness  of  God  dismays 
us,  but  his  charity  still  more.  We  stand  bewildered,  fear 
ful,  and  mute. 

May  I  possess  that  sacred  boldness  which  lies  in  true 
Imimlity ! 

T  will  pray  for  you,  dear  friends,  whom  my  own  sins 


OF  WHOM  I  SPEAK.  201 

and  omissions  have  kept  separated  from  the  Saviour ;  I 
will  pray  for  you  whom  my  cowardice  often,  and  some 
times  a  natural  sentiment  of  bashfulness,  have  prevented 
me  from  addressing  with  words  of  serious  import ;  I  will 
pray  for  you  whom  all  admire  perhaps,  and  for  whom 
none  bends  the  knee.  Grand  and  lofty  minds,  who  tra 
verse  our  sky,  leaving  trains  of  light  behind — for  you  I 
pray ! 

Ah,  we  know  not  what  surprises  may  be  in  reserve  for 
us  in  the  future  life ;  how  many  we  may  meet  there  who 
knew  us  not,  whose  faces  we  had  never  seen,  but  whom 
our  modest,  ardent  supplications  had  drawn  softly  towards 
Christ ! 

Have  I  said  what  I  wished?  Have  I  communicated 
hope  1  Have  I  made  you  feel  the  inexpressible  love  of  our 
Saviour,  the  power  of  prayer,  the  sovereign,  unlimited  ac 
tions  of  God  ? — I  know  not.  Perhaps  emotion  with  me  is 
stronger  than  argument. 

Approach,  then,  the  pages  of  Holy  Writ.  What  figures, 
sublime  in  their  simplicity,  group  themselves  there  i  Con 
template  them.  Their  aspect  has  more  eloquence  than  these 
lips  of  mine. 

Is  it  love  you  would  be  convinced  of  1  See  Jesus  on 
the  cross. 

Is  it  the  power  of  prayer  1  See  women  on  their  knees, 
and  near  them  the  dead  who  rise. 

Is  it  the  free  action  of  the  Holy  Spirit  1  See  the  dying 
tliief,  and  hear  the  murmur  ou  his  lips — Remember  me. 


THE  AUTHORITY  ON  "WHICH  I  REST, 

REST  on  the  authority  of  the  Word  of  God. 

Not  that  I  am  about  to  write  a  treatise  on 
theology.  I  am  incapable,  and  should  have 
more  repugnance  to  write  than  you  to  read  it.  But  if  we 
do  not  want  theology,  we  want  truth. 

On  our  life  to  come,  on  our  dead,  I  find  truth  only  in 
the  Word  of  God  ;  no  other  book  gives  it  me. 

What  is  not  true,  however  beautiful,  cannot  console  us. 
At  that  moment  of  separation,  when  so  many  cherished 
realities  sink  into  the  dust,  could  we  support  the  approaches 
of  a  consolatory  illusion?  Beaten  by  the  billows  of  an 
unspeakable  misery,  I  can  find  a  footing  only  in  the  truth. 
Do  not  extend  to  me  a  rotten  branch  ;  in  fact,  I  should  not 
take  it ;  the  sou]  in  its  suffering  has  marvellous  intuitions, 
unmasking  men  and  things.  I  should  prefer  rather  to  sink 
at  once,  than,  half  saved,  to  fall  back  again  into  the  depths 
of  the  sea. 

One  Book  alone  comes  from  God  ;  one  alone  can  reveal 
to  us  the  secrets  of  God.  It  has  its  silences,  its  mysteries  ; 
it  never  deceives. 

Eternal  life  shines  forth  from  every  page  of  the  Bible. 
At  first  it  is  a  serene,  diffused  light,  strong  enough  to  re 
joice  the  eyes ;  not  perhaps  to  define  each  detail  of  the 
immense  prospect.  Nevertheless,  as  at  the  dawn  of  a  fine 
day,  there  are  peaks  touched  with  light.  The  brightness 
increases,  the  hills  are  gilded,  the  sun  penetrates  the  valleys 


THE  A  UTHORITY  ON  WHICH  I  REST.     203 

Beautiful  already,  grand  and  peaceful  in  its  veil  of  mist, 
the  marvellous  region  grows  more  and  more  glorious  with 
the  growing  day.  Everywhere  life  eternal  throbs  and 
rises  radiant  around  us.  Promise  after  promise,  fact  after 
fact  j  at  first  immortality  seems  to  hover  over  us,  at  last 
descends  distinct  and  palpable.  It  is  no  longer  a  vague 
happiness ;  it  is  a  positive  felicity,  and  our  hearts  bound 
to  meet  it. 

This  will  be  admitted  by  all  with,  reference  to  the  New 
Testament.  There  are  who  contest  it  with  reference  to  the 
Old,  and  especially  some  of  its  earlier  books.  These  tell 
you  that  they  seek  for  the  immortality  of  the  soul  in  the 
writings  of  Moses,  and  do  not  find  it.  They  look  for  it  in 
the  desolations  of  Job,  and  meet  only  with  a  desponding 
Materialism.  They  ask  it  of  the  Psalms,  and  the  Psalms 
answer  by  mournful  elegies  on  the  dead,  who  descend  into 
the  regions  of  oblivion.  They  expect  it  from  Ecclesiastes, 
and  the  wise  Ecclesiastes  celebrates  the  pleasures  of  the 
world  :  for,  after  this  life,  what  is  there  ? 

Before  examining  into  this,  I  throw  back  my  thoughts 
over  the  earlier  pages  of  the  Divine  Word.  Here  I  do  not 
find  myself  oppressed  by  low  and  narrow  skies ;  but  on  the 
contrary  there  is  a  feeling  of  the  Infinite  over  alL  The 
Eternal  and  the  Immutable  shine  through  the  fleeting 
forms  of  this  world.  Man,  whose  feet  are  in  the  dust,  lifts 
high  his  head,  and  breathes  the  air  of  eternity. 

That  time  when  God  took  Enoch  and  transplanted  him 
to  heaven,  and  no  one  was  astonished ;  that  time  when 
Abraham  spoke  with  God  as  a  friend  speaks  to  a  friend  ; 
that  time  when  the  marvellous  ladder  was  let  down  by  the 
pillow  of  Jacob  ;  that  time  when  a  poor  woman  wandering 
on  the  sand  of  the  desert  with  her  suffering  child  saw 
without  surprise  the  aigel  of  the  Lord  descend  from 


204  THE  HEA  VENLY  HORIZONS. 

heaven, — that  tinn  was  not  a  time  of  Materialism;  be 
frery  sure  of  that.  Then  the  princes  of  the  East  followed 
their  flocks  in  the  valleys  of  Judea ;  then  they  pitched 
their  tents  on  the  borders  of  the  desert,  in  regions  whose 
solitude  brought  God  more  near.  In  these  beautiful  nights 
of  Arabia,  clear  as  our  days,  they  stood  at  the  door  of  their 
tents  and  prayed.  They  prayed  under  the  oaks  at  Beer- 
sheba;  they  prayed  on  the  summit  of  mountains.  And 
constantly  there  was  a  voice  near  them  that  gave  answer. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  celestial  messenger,  with  light  from 
heaven  on  his  brow,  who  came  to  the  patriarch  as  he  sat 
before  his  tent  in  the  evening,  reflecting  on  the  past  years 
of  his  life,  distinguished  by  so  many  communications  with 
his  God. 

Think  you  it  was  necessary  to  teach  these  men  that  the 
soul  does  not  die  ?  Think  you  it  was  necessary  to  explain 
to  these  pilgrims,  travelling  incessantly  to  some  land  of 
promise,  that  their  days  were  short,  and  that  after  their 
brief  duration  there  would  commence  a  time  that  had  no 
end  ?  Oh,  with  what  a  sublime  smile  would  Abraham  or 
Jacob  have  listened  to  such  doctors !  The  soul  never 
doubted ;  it  believed  as  the  body  breathes ;  it  had  no  need 
to  discuss  its  faith,  it  held  firm  what  it  held. 

Proofs  are  for  sceptics. 

Would  you  prove  the  magic  of  the  night,  the  rich  har 
vests,  the  flowering  meadows,  to  a  man  who,  from  dawn  to 
twilight,  and  often  under  the  moon,  traverses  the  fields, 
who  draws  his  scythe  through  the  grass  glittering  with 
dew,  who  returns  in  the  evening  by  the  side  of  rivers  in 
which  the  stars  arc  reflected  1  But  what  eloquence  would 
be  necessary,  what  power  of  description  and  of  reasoning, 
to  bring  all  this,  living  and  real,  to  the  child  of  a  miner, 
sonic  poor,  dwarfed  creature,  who  in  the  bowels  of  the 


THE  AUTHORITY  ON  WHICH  I  .REST.     203 

earth,  a  smoking  lamp  fastened  on  his  head,  pushes  his 
truck  along  a  dark  gallery. 

To  him  who  sees,  belief  is  easy ;  the  thing  exists ;  I 
touch  it ;  it  is  mine. 

To  him  who  sees  not,  you  must  bring  faith;  and  he 
who  names  faith,  names  contest  and  conflict.  Argu 
ments  are  for  the  blind ;  the  loud  voice  of  reasoning  for 
the  deaf. 

Do  we  resemble,  then,  the  child  of  the  miner  1  Perhaps. 
Most  certainly  our  world  has  for  ages  resembled  a  city 
over  which  an  eternal  fog  is  hanging.  To  such  a  city  give 
torches,  give  beacons,  at  full  day.  The  sun  advances  and 
blazes  over  it ;  but  the  fog  constantly  interposes — nothing 
clear  is  seen.  There,  indeed,  the  lamp  held  by  a  hand  that 
does  not  shake  is  most  needful.  Nothing  of  all  this  is 
wanted  by  him  who  walKs  abroad  in  the  magnificence  of  a 
summer's  day. 

Those  who  study  even  those  books  of  the  Old  Testament 
most  charged  with  Materialism,  find  them,  as  it  were,  inter 
penetrated  with  eternal  life — find  the  doctrine  of  immor 
tality  everywhere  implied.  It  vibrates  in  their  diction; 
constant  allusions  are  made  to  it ;  no  one  dies,  but  he  is 
gathered  to  his  fathers.  One  feels  it  breathe  through  every 
dialogue  ;  it  is  like  a  heavenly  history  running  parallel  with 
the  earthly,  written  in  indelible  characters  above,  as  the 
latter  gradually  unfolds  amidst  the  hills  and  valleys  of 
Palestine.  Cod,  who  is  educating  man,  is  letting  him  draw 
his  own  inferences.  This  is  a  very  striking  feature  of  the 
first  books  of  Moses,  and  agrees  well  with  the  positive  in 
tervention  of  God.  Weaned  from  those  direct  relations, 
those  familiar  conversations,  the  patriarchs  would  have  had 
greater  need  of  written  explanations  and  demonstrative 
reasoning.  The  hour  came  when  God  deprived  man  of 


206  THE  UEA  VENLY  HORIZONS. 

His  presence ;  from  that  hour  God  bestowed  on  him  prophets, 
into  whose  mouth  He  put  a  miraculous  teaching. 

And  even  granting  that  man  in  those  remote  ages  had 
no  positive  information  given  him  on  subjects  upon  which 
he  never  doubted,  still,  from  time  to  time,  we  find  his  as 
surance  proclaimed  in  unpremeditated  shouts  of  joy. 

Moses,  on  the  borders  of  the  Red  Sea,  just  when  the 
arm  of  the  Lord  has  divided  the  waters,  and  His  people 
have  passed  over, — Moses,  mentally  transported  to  another 
passage,  cries  aloud,  "Thou  hast  guided  them  in  Thy 
strength  unto  Thy  holy  habitation.  Thou  shalt  plant  them 
in  the  place,  O  Lord,  which  Thou  hast  made  for  Thee  to 
dwell  in  ;  in  the  sanctuary,  O  Lord,  which  Thy  hands  havo 
established." 

The  dying  Jacob,  suddenly  filled  with  joy,  exclaims,  "  I 
have  waited  for  Thy  salvation,  0  Lord."  Then  he  pours 
floods  of  blessings  on  Joseph  kneeling  by  his  bed-side  : 
"  Blessings  unto  the  bound  of  the  everlasting  hills.'" 

And  what  are  the  words  whispered  by  the  wife  of 
Elkanah  in  the  temple  at  Shiloh,  when,  her  prayer  granted, 
her  heart  overflows  in  thanksgiving  1  "  I  rejoice  in  Thy 
salvation.  The  Lord  killeth,  and  maketh  alive  ;  He  bring- 
eth  down  to  the  grave,  and  bringeth  up.  The  Lord  shall 
judge  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

And  Balaam,  constrained  by  conscience  against  his  will, 
cries,  "  Let  me  die  the  death  of  the  righteous,  and  let  my 
last  end  be  like  his." 

But  I  am  not  going  to  trench  on  theology ;  and,  to  be 
brief,  I  will  simply  take  up  the  charge  of  Materialism  as 
brought  against  the  book  of  Job,  of  the  Psalms,  and  of 
Ecclesiastes. 

First  of  all,  of  Job. 

Who  is  Job  1    The  most  afflicted  and  despairing  character 


THE  AUTHORITY  ON  WHICH  I  REST.      207 

in  all  the  Bible ;  and  his  book  is  one  where  our  heart  iii 
seasons  of  bitterness  sees  its  every  feaure  faithfully  re 
flected. 

Job  spoke  of  annihilation  ;  nay,  he  did  ncre,  he  invoked 
it  with  all  his  might :  "  I  have  said  to  corruption,  Thou 
art  my  father ;  to  the  worm,  Thou  art  my  mother  and  my 
sister.  And  where  is  now  my  hope  ?  As  for  my  hope, 
who  shall  see  it  ?  They  shall  go  down  to  the  bars  of  the 
pit,  when  our  rest  together  is  in  the  dust." 

Job,  in  his  indignation,  takes  pleasure,  as  it  were,  in  his 
Materialism,  reverts  to  it  continually,  plunges  deeper  and 
deeper  into  it ;  and  in  one  of  those  moods  known  only  to 
passionate  natures,  revels  in  it,  and  would  plunge  deeper 
yet  if  he  could. 

That  surprises  you  1  Alas !  that  does  not  surprise  me. 
T  know  the  dread  luxury  there  is  in  rebel!. Jon — know  the 
overwhelming  invasion  of  sorrow,  the  madness  that  courts 
worse  suffering  still. 

"  Ye  call  to  me,  ye  depths  !  Thou  hast  forsaken  me,  my 
God  !  Thou  who  art  strong  and  mighty,  whose  unchange 
able  bliss  our  cries  do  not  disturb  ;  Thou  takest  pleasure  in 
discharging  all  the  arrows  of  Thy  wrath  on  me  !  Thy  thun 
derbolts  at  a  worm  !  Be  it  so,  then  ;  I  too  will  be  great. 
A  giant  in  misfortune,  infinite  through  desolation ;  I  will 
go  so  far,  I  will  fall  so  deep,  that  even  Thine  arm  must 
grow  greater  still  to  strike  me." 

"  Will  it  be  to  strike  me  only  ?  will  it  not  be  to  raise  me 
up  again  1  The  excess  of  my  grief,  my  very  madness,  the 
yawning  abyss  on  the  edge  of  which  I  walk,  wilt  Thou  not 
have  pity  on  me  for  the  very  sake  of  all  these  ?  For  Thou 
art  still  my  God  ;  Thou  didst  love  me  once." 

Yes,  it  is  even  so ;  the  heart  has  these  itfernal  joys, 
these  touching  reactions ;  it  sees  the  abyss,  flings  itself 


208  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

into  it ;  God,  too,  lias  a  heart ;  God  cannot  leave  me  t<z 
perish  there. 

Or,  to  take  a  more  familiar  and  milder  image,  have  you 
never  seen  a  little  child,  which  its  mother  has  for  a  moment 
left,  burst  out  crying,  knowing  well  that  she  is  near,  that 
she  is  listening  attentively  ?  have  you  never  heard  its 
screams,  I  might  say  its  howls,  of  grief  and  rage?  It 
knows  that  if  it  goes  on  crying  thus,  its  mother  may  perhaps 
punish  it,  but  will  certainly  return. 

Thus  it  is  that  in  the  martyrdom  of  human  tribulation, 
we,  too,  weep  ;  thus  at  such  and  such  an  hour  we  are 
ready  to  become  sceptics,  materialists,  what  not?  God 
comes,  and  God  once  come,  what  happens  ? 

Let  me  bring  you  back  to  Job. 

His  friends  have,  one  after  another,  told  off  the  tale  of 
their  sententious  harangues.  Job  has  resisted  them  to  the 
utmost ;  Job  has,  with  his  own  hand,  torn  off  the  dressings 
which  rude  hands  have  sought  to  lay  upon  his  wounds. 
He  has  arraigned  the  earth,  arraigned  mankind,  nay,  in 
his  delirium,  he  has  arraigned  the  eternal  God.  "Oh, 
that  I  might  have  my  request,  and  that  God  would  grant 
me  the  thing  that  I  long  for  !  Even  that  it  would  please 
God  to  destroy  me,  that  He  would  let  loose  His  hand,  and 
cut  me  off ! "  And  so  his  angry  complaints  go  spreading  on 
through  burning  page  on  page. 

At  last  comes  silence. 

Then,  from  the  midst  of  the  whirlwind,  "  Who  is  this 
who  darkens  counsel  by  words  without  knowledge  ?  Where 
wert  thou  when  I  laid  the  foundations  of  the  earth  ?  Who 
shut  up  the  sea  with  doors  ?  Hast  thou  commanded  the 
morning  since  thy  days  ?  Have  the  gates  of  death  been 
opened  to  thee  1  hast  thou  seen  the  doors  of  the  shadow  of 
death  T 


THE  A  UTHORITY  ON  WHICH  1  REST.     209 

Then  Job,  prostrate,  ashamed,  happy  a  thousandfold  in 
the  triumph  of  his  God,  exclaims,  "  Behold,  I  am  vile.  I 
have  uttered  that  I  understood  not ;  therefore  I  abhor  my 
self,  and  repent  in  dust  and  ashes." 

Are  you  still  amazed  at  Job's  Materialism  ? 

Tor  my  part,  I  thank  God  to  have  shewn  me  thus  my 
own  reflection.  This  is  indeed  myself  as  I  am  in  my  worst 
hours — rebellious,  unbelieving,  idolising  my  own  despair ; 
and  yet  raised  up,  yet  forgiven,  uttering  from  the  very  hot 
test  of  the  furnace  that  cry  of  faith  repeated  from  age  to 
age,  that  glorious  trumpet-burst  sounded  in  defiance  at  each 
of  death's  apparent  triumphs  :  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer 
liveth.  .  .  .  And  though  this  body  be  destroyed,  yet  in  my 
flesh  I  shall  see  God  j  whom  I  shall  see  for  myself,  arid 
mine  eyes  shall  behold,  and  not  another." 

Let  us-  take  the  Psalms. 

There  is  everything  in  the  Psalms.  They  sing  of  eternal 
life  in  accents  of  ineffable  sweetness ;  they  speak  of  death 
as  complete  annihilation.  Sustained  by  the  mighty  hand 
of  God,  the  Psalmist  enters  triumphant  into  heavenly 
places ;  left  to  himself,  a  prey  to  his  adversaries,  he 
grovels  in  the  grave,  and  remains  motionless  there. 

Here  again  I  recognise  the  deeply  humane  and  sympa 
thetic  purpose  which,  in  the  Revelation  of  my  God,  shews 
me  my  image  to  attract  and  draw  me  on  :  I  am  that  man. 
But  I  see  another  and  an  important  fact,  and  it  is  perhaps 
because  this  has  been  too  much  neglected,  that  doubts  that 
.shake  our  faith  have  risen  i.p  between  us  and  the  full 
beauty  of  the  Psalms. 

This  fact  is  as  follows  : 

In  the  Psalms  habitually,  as  occasionally  in  the  writings 
of  the  Prophets,  Death  is  looked  at  from  a  terrestrial  point 
of  view.  The  dead  are  considered  with  reference  to  thia 


210  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

world  which  they  have  absolutely  quitted.  When  David 
appears  to  speak  the  language  of  Materialism,  he  speaks  a.s 
an  observer  of  material  facts  only.  Does  this  imply  that 
he  denies  other  facts  1  I  do  not  think  so. 

In  his  hours  of  dejection,  the  very  lugubrious  character 
of  Death,  looked  at  in  its  external  aspect,  is  the  only  one 
that  fills  the  mind  of  the  Prophet-King.  He  takes  up  his 
position  in  the  realm  of  appearances,  of  our  present  reali 
ties  ;  and  he  tells  us  what  he  descries  there. 

That  what  he  tells  us  is  unutterably  sad,  who  can  deny  ? 
But  if  we  look  only  at  what  he  is  looking  at,  can  we  employ. 
even  we,  believers,  any  language  but  his  ? 

The  grave  is  the  region  of  silence,  shall  the  dead  praise 
the  Lord  1 — they  are  gone — the  place  that  knew  them  shall 
know  them  no  more.  The  living,  the  living,  they  shall 
praise  Thee,  shall  celebrate  Thy  name  !  But  the  dead  men, 
silent,  senseless,  soon  to  be  turned  to  their  dust ! 

Then  again,  all  that  is  relatively  true,  when  we  consider 
the  dead  in  connexion  with  earthly  existence,  is  true  with 
an  absolute  truth  as  regards  the  body,  our  own  dead  bodies. 

Yes,  absolutely  true.  Till  the  morning  of  the  resurrec 
tion,  our  bodies  will  lie  motionless.  Never  more  shall  our 
lips  praise  the  Lord ;  never  more  shall  our  eyes  laugh  in 
the  light  of  His  sun.  The  actions  of  living  men,  their  con 
flicts,  joys,  and  sorrows,  the  clay  above  our  heads  shakes 
with  these,  and  our  bones  feel  no  thrill 

It  is  this  very  prospect  which  is  presented  by  the  grave 
to  our  frightened  glance  ;  it  is  this  fact  which  it  includes, 
this  hideousness,  this  gloom.  If  it  were  not  so,  if  death 
had  riot  this  appalling  aspect,  where  would  be  its  horror  ? 

Why  do  we  weep,  we  Christians  who  see  heaven  opened  ] 
Why,  when  we  are  going  down  to  those  dark  dwelling- 
places — we,  whoso  eyes  nro  lit  with  light  from  on  high,  we 


THE  AUTHORITY  ON  WHICH  I  REST.     211 

who  know  that  it  is  to  God  our  souls  will  rise, — why  do  we 
feel  this  shudder,  this  anxious  amazement,  this  transient 
gloom  ? 

Ah !  the  Psalmist  was  not  wrong  •  our  lifeless  body 
remains  lifeless,  useless,  indifferent  to  all  that  goes  on 
beneath  the  sky.  The  prophet  did  not  deceive  us ;  on  the 
side  of  earth,  our  side,  all  is  over  for  the  dead.  But  on 
the  side  of  heaven,  all  is  only  about  to  begin,  and  he  has 
proclaimed  this  glorious  truth  in  hymns  of  incomparable 
beauty. 

What  words  console  the  dying,  what  weapons  do  they 
seize  in  their  trembling  hands  1 — the  Psalms  :  "  Whither 
shall  I  go  from  Thy  Spirit  ?  If  I  climb  up  to  heaven,  Thou 
art  there ;  if  I  make  my  bed  in  Hades,  Thou  art  there  also." 

They  drag  themselves  along  the  gloomy  path  alone, 
terrified  :  "  Thou  art  with  me  ;  Thy  rod  and  Thy  staff  they 
comfort  me.** 

Their  sins  crowd  round  them  numerous  as  the  sand  of 
the  sea,  and  no  more  time  is  left :  "  As  for  our  iniquities, 
Thou  shalt  purge  them  away." 

The  mystery  of  the  last  breath  draws  near  :  "  Thou  wilt 
not  leave  my  soul  in  hell ;  God  shall  redeem  my  life  from 
the  power  of  the  grave.  He  will  receive  me.  I  shall  see 
the  goodness  of  the  Lord  in  the  land  of  the  living." 

With  the  Psalms,  martyrs  have  walked  with  unshaken 
spirit  to  meet  a  bloody  death ;  with  them,  mothers,  hus 
bands,  wives,  have  strengthened  their  heart  for  the  inexor 
able  parting  ;  with  them  the  widow,  the  father,  the  daughter 
bereaved,  have  been  able  to  pursue  their  solitary  way  with 
out  repining.  Poor  souls,  disinherited  at  birth  of  all  earthly 
joy,  have  while  repeating  the  Psalms  felt  unspeakable 
blessings  descend  from  heaven,  and  bear  them  ur,  and 
transport  thorn  to  the  land  of  happiness. 


212  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

I  do  not  think  that  a  Book  which  works  such  miracles 
us  these  can  be  a  materialistic  book 

And  now  for  Ecclesiastes. 

There  is  on  earth  a  greater  misfortune  than  to  have  to 
light  for  one's  life.  There  is  a  sadness  more  complete  than 
that  of  bereavement,  sickness,  poverty,  even  pushed  to  their 
extremest  limits ;  there  is  the  bitterness  of  a  soul  which 
has  exhausted,  fathomed  everything,  and  in  all  directions 
met  with  nothingness. 

Then,  if  that  soul  does  not — powerfully  succoured  from 
on  high — return  to  Him  who  solves  all  doubts,  to  the  thror  c 
whence  flows  the  mighty  river  of  truth,  it  goes  wandering 
tli rough  the  desert  places  of  this  world,  alone  in  a  crowd 
a  stranger  alike  to  love  and  hate,  disdaining  all  coarser 
pleasures,  indifferent  to  highest  joys,  crying  ever  in  one 
sardonic  voice,  "Vanity,  vanity  !" 

The  Preacher  has  traversed  those  desert  places ;  he  has 
lingered  there  ;  he  has  measured  their  empty  immensity  ; 
their  mirage  has  infatuated  him  :  he  has  fingered  the 
stunted  thorns  that  shewed  from  afar  like  forests  fresh  and 
green ;  his  lips  have  been  glued  to  the  arid  sand,  and  when 
he  chanced  to  find  some  drops  of  water  there,  lo,  it  was 
stagnant  and  impure.  But,  arrived  on  the  utmost  limits  of 
this  desert,  he  saw  the  borders  of  the  promised  land  indent 
the  sky  with  a  line  of  palms  ;  the  scoreliing  air  grew  softer  ; 
with  his  finger  he  pointed  to  the  mountains,  pointed  to  the 
green  shadows,  and  then  he  was  silent,  for  we  understood 
him  well. 

The  Preacher  is  an  Oriental.  The  East,  land  of  light, 
with  its  rarified  atmosphere,  does  not  need  our  compendious 
explanations.  A  gossamer  thread  floating  in  the  air  suffices  to 
guide  the  Arab  through  the  labyrinth  of  thought.  An  apo- 


THE  AUTHORITY  ON  WHICH  I  REST.     213 

I'-giie,  an  enigma,  are  enough,  let  his  mind  have  free  scope  j 
what  he  knows  best  is  just  what  you  have  not  told  him. 

Our  logic  seems  coarse  to  the  Oriental,  our  demonstra- 
'.ions  cumbersome.  The  moral  of  the  tale,  he  perceives  it 
''i"iig  before  you  do,  and  if  you  tell  it  him,  he  smiles,  casts 
i  i!  you  a  long  look,  and  murmurs  within  himself — O 
,•  rank,  of  the  babbling  lips,  the  sluggish  mind,  son  of  the 
:'rg  and  of  nights  of  darkness  I 

The  Preacher  passes  in  review  all  systems,  all  philoso 
phies,  all  pleasures,  and  selects,  by  preference,  intellectual 
pride.  We  see  him  in  turn  sceptical,  voluptuous,  ascetic, 
in  love  with  glory,  devoted  to  science,  then  philanthropical, 
and  keenly  sympathizing  with  human  misery,  then  an 
idolater  of  good,  and  bent  upon  attaining  it  in  his  own 
strength.  He  follows  each  wayward  impulse  of  his  heart ; 
sinks  to  appalling  depths,  soars  to  sublime  heights,  always 
sincere,  speaking  with  implacable  precision  ;  and,  when  he 
has  tried  all,  out  of  the  darkness  of  those  lowest,  and,  as  it 
were,  lost  depths  of  that  land  of  infidelity  into  which  he 
sought  to  annihilate  himself,  in  one  second,  with  one  bound, 
he  traverses  space,  and  falls — earnest,  a  little  sad,  and  yet 
with  beaming  brow — before  the  throne  of  God. 

The  book  is  full  throughout  of  ironical  sentences,  which, 
one  after  the  other,  strike  heavy  blows  at  all  the  theories 
of  human  pride.  Is  it  wisdom? — "What  has  the  wise 
man  more  than  the  fool  1  Better  is  the  sight  of  the  eyeSj 
than  the  wandering  of  the  desire." 

Is  it  noble  deeds,  courage,  power  ? — "  Better  a  living  dog 
than  a  dead  lion." 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ?  does  the  heart  seek  to  take 
possession  of  the  skies  for  them  by  vehemence  of  desire  1 — 
"I  praised  the  dead  which  are  already  dead,  more  than  the 


2U  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

living  which  are  yet  alive.  Yea,  better  is  he  than  both 
they,  which  hath  not  yet  been." 

Is  it  happiness  ? — "  Al]  go  unto  one  place." 

Is  it  animal  enjoyment  ? — "  Take  thine  ease,  eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry,  for  a  man  hath  no  better  thing  under  th* 
sun  ;  this  is  his  portion  all  the  days  of  his  vanity." 

Death  still  remains,  a  vague  hope  :  "  That  which  befall- 
eth  the  sons  of  men  befalleth  beasts  ;  even  one  thing  befall- 
eth  them  :  as  the  one  dicth,  so  dieth  the  other ;  yea,  they 
have  all  one  breath  :  man  hath  no  pre-eminence  over  a 
beast :  all  is  vanity." 

The  circle  is  closed,  tLe  soul  in  extremity  has  gone 
through  it  all,  has  possessed  whatever  science  could  give  ; 
has  known  whatever  experience  could  reveal ;  the  only 
result,  a  little  dust  soon  scattered,  nothing  more. 

Then  comes  the  gist  of  the  book,  a  book  which,  to  be 
thoroughly  understood,  must  not  be  read  in  fragments,  but 
all  through  at  once,  as  it  was  thought  out ;  mounting  the 
same  rapid  steed  that  bears  the  traveller  along,  and  com 
pleting  the  cycle  at  the  same  pace. 

The  key  to  the  enigma  is  given  us  in  a  few  sober,  simple 
words,  clear  as  the  sky  of  Judea  :  "  Rejoice,  O  young  man, 
in  thy  youth,  and  walk  in  the  ways  of  thine  heart,  and  in 
the  sight  of  thine  eyes  :  but  know  thou,  that  for  all  these 
tilings  God  will  bring  thee  into  judgment." 

Then,  in  a  tenderer  voice  :  "  Remember  now  thy  Creator 
in  the  days  of  thy  youth,  while  the  evil  days  come  not,  nor 
the  years  draw  nigh,  when  thou  shalt  say,  I  have  no  plea 
sure  in  them  :  or  ever  the  silver  cord  be  loosed,  or  the 
golden  bowl  be  broken,  or  the  pitcher  be  broken  at  the 
fountain,  or  the  wheel  broken  at  the  cistern  :  then  shall 
the  dust  return  to  the  earth  as  it  was  ;  and  the  spirit  shal? 
return  unto  God  who  gave  it." 


THE  AUTHORITY  Otf  WHICH  I  KEST.     215 

Is  there  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  still  left  ? — "  Let  us  hear 
the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  :  Fear  God,  and  keep 
his  commandments  :  for  this  is  the  whole  duty  of  man. 
For  God  shall  bring  every  work  into  judgment,  with  every 
secret  thing,  whether  it  be  good,  or  whether  it  be  evil." 

If  there  be  hearts  oppressed  with  grief  who  have  blessed 
the  Lord  for  the  book  of  Job,  if  there  be  heart's  buffeted 
by  this  world's  storms  who  have  blessed  Him  for  the 
Psalms,  I  believe  that  there  are  reasoning,  investigating 
minds,  souls  not  to  be  taken  in  by  appearances,  weary  of 
the  emptiness  that  confronts  them  on  all  sides,  more  sick 
with  nothingness  than  others  are  of  a  deadly  wound ;  and 
I  believe  that  it  is  for  the  book  of  Ecclesiastes  that  such 
will  specially  bless  the  Lord. 

These  momentous  questions  have  detained  us.  I  hasten 
on  to  the  end  of  the  journey. 

The  writings  of  the  prophets,  properly  so  called,  are  in 
terpenetrated  with  the  life  to  come ;  they  are  illuminated 
thereby,  and  if,  like  some  shadow  of  a  cloud,  chased  by  the 
north-east  wind  in  a  serene  sky,  a  discouraging  thought 
ever  crosses  the  revelations  of  a  seer,  instantly  the  cry  of 
triumph  bursts  forth  :  "  Thy  dead  men  shall  live,  together 
with  my  dead  body  shall  they  revive.  Awake  and  sing, 
ye  inhabitants  of  the  dust,  for  thy  dew  is  as  the  dew  of 
herbs,  and  the  earth  shall  no  more  cover  her  slain." 

Be  it  so  !  you  say.  Nevertheless  death  in  the  Old  Tes 
tament,  remains  a  somewhat  gloomy  fact.  In  the  New 
Testament,  on  the  contrary,  it  appears  as  a  deliverance. 
There  is  no  relapse  into  incredulity  and  alarm.  Such  s 
contrast  as  this  weakens  the  authority  of  the  Bible,  by  de 
stroying  its  unity. 

For  my  part,  I  discover  no  opposition  between  the 
teaching  of  the  prophets  and  that  of  the  apostles.  I  sea 


216  THE  HEA VENLY  HORIZONS. 

different  men,  I  see  a  growing  light,  I  cannot  see  night  on 
one  side,  day  on  the  other,  white  here,  black  there. 

Before  Christ,  the  prophets  saw  afar  off;  their  hearts 
were  stirred  with  holy  hope ;  at  times  they  held  it  very 
fast.  With  Christ,  and  after  Christ,  the  apostles  possessed. 
The  different  is  great.  "What  those  foresaw,  these  touched. 
The  truth  that  a  lightning  flash  revealed  to  the  former,  the 
latter  lived  in  close  contact  with ;  they  were  surrounded 
by  it,  could  no  more  escape  from  it  than  we  from  the 
ambient  air.  The  conqueror  of  death  was  their  Master 
and  their  Brother.  With  their  own  eyes  they  had  seen 
Him  die  on  the  cross,  with  their  own  eyes  they  had  seen 
Him  return  into  their  midst,  sit  down  at  their  table,  walk 
with  them  by  the  Lake  of  Gennesareth  :  then,  one  April 
morning,  from  that  very  Mount  of  Olives  they  had  so  often 
ascended  together,  they  saw  Jesus,  their  Lord  and  their 
God,  carried  away  on  clouds  to  sit  down  in  triumph  at  the 
Father's  right  hand.  Tell  me,  is  it  not  natural  that  their 
words  should  have  other  tones,  their  hearts  possess  a  higher 
courage,  and  that  death,  death  itself,  should  put  on  a  harm- 
lessness,  nay,  I  may  say  an  attractiveness  for  them,  such 
as  it  never  could  have  worn  to  those  who  saw  these  miracu 
lous  events  loom  indistinct  through  far-off  future  ages? 
Again,  there  is  a  melancholy  but  true  remark  that  I  desire 
to  make  here.  Christian  knowledge  is  not  always  accom 
panied  with  joy.  Whether  through  ignorance  or  weakness 
of  heart,  or  by  one  of  those  decrees  of  God  of  which 
eternity  will  reveal  the  blended  wisdom  and  love,  a  singular 
sadness  may,  at  the  approach  of  death,  take  possession  of 
a  redeemed  spirit. 

To  be  a  believer,  to  have  clear  views,  to  love  God,  to 
know  one's-self  accepted,  is  not  enough  to  make  one  wel 
come  with  radiant  smile  the  messenger  of  the  livid  wing 


THE  AUTHORITY  ON  WHICH  I  REST.     217 

Many  a  strong  man  has  felt  Ms  courage  sink,  many  a  bright 
flame  has  grown  pale. 

St  Paul,  he  who  used  to  say,  "  to  die  is  gain ; "  St  Paul 
in  Asia,  despairing  even  of  life,  and  then  saved,  glorifies  God 
who  has  delivered  him  from  so  great  a  danger;  who  de 
livers  us,  he  adds,  and  in  whom  we  trust  that  He  will  yet 
deliver. 

In  the  fortress  at  Jerusalem,  this  same  Paul,  learning 
that  the  Jews  are  laying  snares  for  him,  has  the  governor 
apprised  of  it  that  he  may  watch  over  his  safety.  At 
Csesarea,  he  takes  the  same  precaution. 

In  the  midst  of  the  tempest,  when  the  ship  that  carries 
the  Apostle  to  Italy,  dismasted,  broken  by  the  force  of  the 
•waves,  is  about  to  fall  to  pieces,  forsaken  by  its  crew,  Paul 
detains  the  sailors,  "  Except  these  remain  in  the  ship,  you 
cannot  be  saved." 

At  Borne,  before  Nero,  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  trial, 
he  writes,  "  And  I  was  delivered  from  the  mouth  of  the 
lion." 

Is  Paul  afraid  to  die  ?  Not  so  !  But,  thank  God  !  Paul 
is  a  man.  Paul  has  times  when  life  seems  to  him  sweet, 
his  mission  grand ;  Paul,  too,  has  seasons  when  the  gloomy 
aspect  of  death  presents  itself  to  his  mind.  Were  it  not 
so,  he  wrould  no  longer  be  one  of  us  :  we  should  not  under 
stand  him. 

There  is  another  and  greater  than  Paul,  who  is  man  also. 
He  in  the  darkness  of  the  garden,  on  the  cold  night  pros 
trate  on  the  ground,  and  that  ground  wet  by  blood,  which 
flows  drop  by  drop  from  His  face  ;  He  cries  in  the  anguish 
of  His  soul,  His  soul  which  is  exceeding  sorrowful  even 
unto  death,  "  Father,  if  thou  wilt,  remove  this  cup  from 
me." 

What  doest  Thou,  Saviour  of  mankind?     Bedeeming 


218  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

God,  what  is  it  Thou  dost  ask  ?  For  this  hour  Thou  art 
come,  for  this  agony,  this  cup ;  and  Thou  growest  faint, 
Thou  sayest,  "  if  Thou  wilt" 

Thus  speaks  the  stoical  exactingness  of  man,  the  coarse 
cruelty  of  his  logic.  Man  looks  only  for  the  ideal  in  his 
fellow-man ;  no  flesh,  no  fibre,  only  an  iron  bar,  straight, 
unbending,  which  pierces  or  breaks.  God  will  have  a  man, 
man  above  all ;  and  thus  He  who  is  to  conquer  death  will 
faint  for  a  moment  at  its  dread  approach. 

Oh,  very  precious  to  me  the  faintness  of  my  God ;  the 
fears  of  His  apostle,  I  bless  them  too. 

The  heavenly  visage  of  a  Stephen  stoned  to  death, 
rouses  my  energy ;  what  the  Lord  has  done  for  him,  He 
may  do  for  me  also.  But  if  the  hosts  of  the  redeemed 
presented  only  such  lofty  shapes  as  these,  not  any  pallor, 
not  any  shadow,  I  should  feel  myself,  as  it  were,  a 
stranger  in  so  holy  a  company ;  a  secret  voice  would 
whisper  to  me,  "  Art  thou  indeed  one  of  them  1" 

Now,  on  the  contrary,  I  know  that  one  may  die  humbly, 
silently,  perhaps  timidly ;  may  be  more  sorry  for  the  sins 
committed  than  thankful  for  the  pardon  given,  and  never 
theless  and  certainly  belong  to  Jesus.  Not  to  all  Christians 
are  granted  joyous  and  triumphant  deaths.  The  most  es 
teemed  among  them,  those  whose  great  deeds  have  been  the 
most  widely  spread  by  fame,  whose  voice  has  made  many 
hearts  thrill,  may  depart  obscurely,  shuddering  at  the  vanity 
of  all  terrestrial  glory,  holding  indeed  the  hand  of  Jesus ; 
but  trembling  the  while.  And  at  the  same  hour,  some  un 
known  woman,  some  little  child  who  lends  an  innocent  ear 
to  the  Divine  promises,  shall  behold  the  heavens  opened, 
soar  away  on  unflagging  wing,  and  greet  their  last  day  with 
hallelujahs. 

There  are  many  ways  of  dying  for  Christians;  for  all 


THE  AUTHORITY  ON  WHICH  I  REST.     219 

there  is  the  same  eternal  life.  Tho  departures  differ  :  the 
goal  is  one.  There  may  be  more  or  less  light ;  but  it 
is  always  the  same  sun.  Where  we  see  contradictions, 
there  exist  only  the  opposite  sides  of  the  same  object. 
Sometimes  fully  illumined,  sometimes  half  in  shade,  it  is 
still  the  same  believing  soul ;  and  there  is  also  the  same 
revealing  God.  In  the  centuries  anterior,  as  in  those  after 
Christ,  the  future  life  promised  to  believers  always  makes 
them  glad.  But  the  luminous  hemispheres  have  their  dark 
spots,  the  dark  zones  their  bright  ones ;  everywhere  the 
Book  proclaims  aloud,  that  the  soul  does  not  die.  The 
more  busy  the  times,  the  harder  of  hearing  the  ears,  the 
louder  becomes  the  voice.  It  is  to  this  voice  I  want  to 
listen. 

One  last  word. 

I  take  the  Book  of  God  in  its  familiar  sense.  I  leave 
allegories  to  sages,  knotty  points  to  theologians.  As  for 
us,  very  little,  very  simple  as  we  are,  we  want  simple  words, 
and  are  fain  to  receive  them  just  as  our  Father  gives  them 
us.  In  point  of  fact,  it  is  for  such  as  we  that  He  has 
spoken. 

The  Bible  contains  mysteries  ;  God  forbid  that  I  should 
seek  to  lift  their  veil.  The  Bible  contains  deep  sayings  ; 
these  belong  to  the  discerning  and  the  wise.  The  Bible 
uses  transparent  images,  simple  parables  spoken  to  fisher 
men,  to  shepherds ;  these  are  for  us.  For  us  too  the 
natural  language,  the  positive  meaning,  the  words  taken  for 
what  they  are  worth.  Ah  !  if  the  Jews  had  only  received 
in  their  literal  sense  as  they  were  presented  to  them,  those 
revealing  details,  the  poverty  of  Jesus,  the  thirty  pieces  of 
silver,  the  lots  cast  for  the  coat,  the  rich  man's  grave,  and 
so  many  others  ! 

Do  not  fear.      We  are  not  about  to  open  subterranean 


220  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

galleries,  or  devise  audacious  paths  to  inaccessible  heights; 
we  fit  out  no  balloons  for  the  air,  no  lofty  ships  for  the 
wide  sea.  To  sit  beside  a  tomb,  to  listen  to  what  our 
Father  says ;  to  receive  it  in  silence,  and  strengthen  our 
hearts  thereby, — this  is  all,  we  propose  nothing  mora 


THE  PARADISE  WE  FEAR. 

|HAT  we  fear  the  last  judgment  is  easily  under 
stood  ;  that  we  should  have  a  fear  of  Paradise 
seems  unintelligible.  Yet,  if  we  look  closely  at 
the  matter,  nothing  is  more  justifiable  than  such  a  fear. 

There  are  two  Paradises  :  that  of  God  ;  that  of  men. 

The  one,  perfect  in  its  beauty,  must  have  for  us  a  sove 
reign  attraction.  But  it  is  known  to  few,  for  few  seek  to 
know  it  in  the  pages  of  Holy  Writ.  The  other,  which 
men  have  fashioned  as  well  as  they  were  able,  astonishes 
more  than  it  delights.  It  is  this  which  excites  in  the 
better  order  of  minds  a  secret  terror. 

No,  it  has  nothing  distinctly  evil,  but  its  utter  vagueness 
fills  one  with  dread.  Plunged  in  a  luminous  mist,  I  feel 
the  terror  of  a  drowning  man.  To  be  drowned  in  light, 
may  seem  very  beautiful ;  it  is  still  to  be  drowned. 

Splendour  !  Immensity  !  Eternity  !  Grand  words,  grand 
things.  A  little  definite  happiness  would  be  more  to  the 
purpose. 

Shall  I  tell  you  what  repels  me  from  your  Paradise  ?  It 
is  that  I  seek  an  object  I  cannot  find  there — myself. 

I  seek  also  what  I  cannot  find  there  till  I  have  found 
myself — a  personal  God. 

This  individuality,  this  /  myself,  that  I  know  and  feel, 
by  which  I  am  what  I  am,  and  not  another,  I  demand  it 
of  your  heavens ;  your  heavens  shew  me  spirits,  intelli- 


222  T1IJ-:  HEAVENLY  UOttlZOSS. 

gences,  impalpable  abstractions,  indistinguishable  from  each 
other ;  I  turn  away  saddened,  confounded. 

Fill  the  void  with  light,  it  is  still  a  void.  Where  all 
personality  has  disappeared,  where  the  individual  life  is 
extinguished  or  absorbed,  I  see  nothing  but  an  abyss.  If 
from  age  to  age,  part  of  a  column  of  light,  I  am  to  be 
ascending  and  descending  this  abyss,  I  am  still  lost  in  it. 

God  has  made  me  a  living  unit ;  has  made  me  me.  Be 
fore  all — there  above,  as  here  below — it  is  this  me  I  want ; 
without  it,  how  can  I  remember,  how  can  I  see,  how  com 
prehend  and  love  my  God  1 

If  the  golden  vapours  of  the  morning  can  celebrate  and 
adore  their  God,  if  the  purple  clouds  of  evening  can  indeed 
glow  with  love,  then  let  us  be  mists  and  clouds,  which  the 
wind  impels  hither  and  thither.  But  if  to  know  God,  if 
to  worship  Him,  I  must  be  man ;  if  to  love  Him  I  must 
have  a  living  soul,  I  keep  my  humanity,  I  keep  my  indi 
viduality,  I  keep  them  there,  and  more  ardently  than  ever 
— there  beyond  the  skies. 

At  times,  the  Paradise  which  men  have  imagined  emerges 
a  little  from  its  dazzling  mist. 

I  see  immense  desert  spaces  of  milder  light,  which  some 
times  remind  me  of  those  Elysian  fields,  whose  sad  inhabit 
ants  pass  eternity  in  regretting  the  earth, — its  cheerful  sun, 
its  combats,  its  hatreds,  its  errors,  its  tears ;  sometimes 
they  call  to  mind  that  melancholy  region  where  Dante 
encountered  Virgil,  which  was  bathed  in  a  diffuse  lustre, 
that  knew  neither  morning,  nor  evening,  nor  mid-day ;  a 
region  that  was  without  grief  or  joy,  which  was  traversed 
by  the  slow  steps  of  pensive  spirits,  which  strikes  upon  my 
heart  colder  than  death. 

The  Paradise  of  man  is  not  intended,  however,  for  death. 
They  have  discovered  a  word  to  express  it — a  word  which 


THE  PARADISE   WE  FEAR.  223 

nays  all,  and  which  says  nothing — repose.  Repose  !  Each 
one  finds  in  it  what  he  can. 

One  thing  it  certainly  implies — immobility. 

Repose  is  immobility.  It  would  be  silence,  but  that 
one  accords  to  the  blessed  tb^  privilege  of  singing  without 
pause,  in  the  same  voice,  the  same  hallelujah. 

Repose  is  placid  contemplation,  fixed,  congealed,  so  to 
speak,  on  one  point,  God. 

Repose  is  absorption  in  a  thought  which  is  also  a  senti 
ment.  A  fixed  star,  planted  in  a  sky  of  brass,  would  have 
;-s  much  of  movement  and  of  life. 

Repose  is  the  oblivion  of  the  past,  effacement  of  every 
thing  except  one  present  ardour,  changeless,  eternal. 

The  creatures  who  repose  like  this  are  no  longer  men ; 
they  neither  think  nor  remember ;  one  eternal  thought  is 
tantamount  to  no  thought  at  all ;  without  change,  no  life. 
Emotion,  activity,  the  aspirations  of  intelligence,  character, 
•ill  have  disappeared. 

Look  at  the  Paradise  of  painters ;  for  the  Paradise  of 
those  ages  which  are  especially  called  the  ages  of  faith,  may 
be  seen  in  their  pictures.  The  idea  of  the  time  is  written 
there.  What  do  we  see  ?  A  blue  fluid,  or  ether,  illumi 
nated  more  and  more  as  you  penetrate  its  depths.  An 
immense  circle,  or  interior  of  a  vast  cone,  thickly  covered 
over  with  human  heads,  beatific  faces  planted  between  a 
pair  of  little  wings ;  the  first  row  highly  finished,  the  next 
more  slightly  treate/fl,  the  third  just  indicated,  the  others 
growing  fainter  and  smaller  as  far  as  the  perspective  is 
carried,  till  the  winged  head  dwindles  to  a  mere  dot,  a 
point  upon  a  circumflex.  The  same  expression  upon  all, 
the  same  smile,  the  same  lips  half  opened  by  the  same 
ecstasy  ;  and  at  the  bottom  of  our  cone,  in  a  focus  of  light) 
the  triangle  with  the  symbolic  dove  ! 


224  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

Such  is  the  heaven  which  awaits  us. 

Tell  me,  you  living,  you  thinking  creatures,  you 
love  with  veritable  emotion,  are  you  ravished,  are  you 
melted  with  tenderness  1  This  region — desert  in  its  multi 
tude — do  you  sigh  for  it,  do  you  really  desire,  can  you  put 
up  one  passionate  prayer  for  it  1  It  chills  you,  it  terrifies 
you,  you  turn  trembling  towards  this  earth  of  ours,  and 
cling  to  it  like  idolaters. 

Look  at  the  heaven  of  Dante.  If  there  has  existed  in 
the  world  an  ardent  spirit,  a  creative  imagination,  if  a  word 
of  power  has  resounded  in  it,  if,  in  short,  there  is  a  poetry 
you  will  find  it  under  that  pen  which  kindles  into  light 
whatever  it  touches. 

Light,  yes  ! — there  is  such  an  intensity  of  light  shed 
around  us,  so  energetic  a  feeling  of  some  luminous  vibrat 
ing  atmosphere  of  bliss,  that  every  verse  seems  to  be  on  fire. 
There  is  ecstasy  in  the  air  we  breathe.  But  these  circles — 
these  interminable  circles  !  There,  for  ever,  in  immense  or 
bits,  revolve  the  beatific  cohorts  ;  love,  which  is  their  light, 
gives  them  also  their  movement;  the  more  vivid  their 
affection,  the  more  intense  is  their  brilliancy,  and  the  more 
rapid  their  revolution.  Wild  tournaments  of  spirits,  rush 
ing  through  the  skies,  and  guttering  with  the  stars  of  hea 
ven,  which  they  sweep  onwards  in  their  mad  rotation — 
such  is  the  Paradise  of  the  poet  and  theologian. 

Volgeano  a  ruota.  Hope  not  for  other  happiness.  To  sing 
three  words  through  ages  after  ages  ;  to  shine,  to  whirl,  lost 
in  the  intoxication  of  light  and  movement — these  are  the 
joys,  the  distant  reflection  of  which  is  to  dry  all  human  tears. 

In  proportion  as  we  rise  from  heaven  to  heaven,  are  the 
last  vestiges  of  personality  effaced ;  in  proportion  as  our 
happiness  augments,  are  the  last  human  feelings  lost  in  this 
celestial  mechanism. 


THE  PARADISE  WE  FEAR.  225 

These  souls  in  bliss  arrange  themselves  in  symbolic 
figures  j  agglomerate  into  a  cross,  a  ladder,  an  eagle.  The 
best  placed  represent  the  eyes  of  the  imperial  bird,  the 
dazzling  pupils  where  Trajan  throws  his  rays  by  the  side 
of  Hezekiah  and  Constantino  the  Great. 

in  a  still  higher  and  transcendent  sphere  there  are  im 
movable  souls  ranged — I  was  going  .to  say  stuck — in  rows 
round  an  amphitheatre,  who  sit  bathed  in  light.  In  the 
centre,  God.  Three  circles  of  equal  diameter,  the  Father, 
the  Son,  "and  the  Holy  Ghost. 

The  happiest  of  the  happy  fix  their  gaze  for  ever  on  this 
triple  circle,  whose  brightness  would  extinguish  the  sun. 
An  eternal  hosanna  fills  the  immensity  with  its  one  in 
variable  note.  This  is  the  empyrean. 

What  do  you  feel  1  For  me,  I  feel  terror.  I  cannot  be 
solaced,  or  deceived  by  the  grandeur  of  styles ;  and  the 
tumultuous  emotions  which  doubtless  stirred  the  poet,  in 
his  poet's  frenzy,  do  not  reach  me.  This  God  is  not  a  God, 
is  not  an  angel,  is  not  comparable  to  a  man.  Give  me  an 
avenging  God,  or  give  me  blind  Destiny  itself.  But  this 
abstraction — but  this  infinite  abyss — this  hollow,  bottom 
less  cone,  with  its  three  immovable  circles — my  soul  re 
volts — I  fly  from  it  with  spread  wings.  I  should  fly  even 
to  the  borders  of  Hell.  And  if  your  Paradise  imprisons 
the  soul  in  a  wall  of  fire,  I  would  take  refuge  in  that  hea 
ven  which  is  most  remote  from  perfect  bliss. 

These  unnatural  beatitudes  oppress  the  heart.  In  fact, 
some  freezing  air  from  a  Pagan  Paradise  has  passed  over 
our  heaven,  has  withered  its  flowers,  congealed  its  life. 
We  remain  sad  in  the  presence  of  such  happiness.  And 
\vith  good  reason. 

A  poor  woman,  eighty  years  old,  pious,  resigned,  was 
approaching  her  heaven.  Her  time  was  come,  she  obeved: 


226  THE  II L  'A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

but  she  cast  more  than  one  wandering  ]ook  on  this  sid« 
the  grave,  on  a  world  where  there  was  activity  and  affec 
tion.  Even  her  poor  old  bo<iy,  worn  out  and  wrinkled,  she 
seemed  to  quit  with  regret. 

This  Paradise,  how  do  you  represent  it  to  yourself  1 

''  Ah,  well ! "  she  answered  in  her  simplicity ;  "  I  sup 
pose  that,  like  at  church,  there  must  be  chairs  put  all  along 
the  sky ;  one  sits  there,  and  sings  psalms  throughout 
eternity ! " 

Ethereal  abysses,  winged  heads  piled  up  close  together, 
Ely4an  fields,  pews  in  a  greater  church, — always  some 
monotony,  always  an  obliteration  of  self,  and  an  immeasur 
able  ennui. 

It  is  not  thus  with  the  true  beatitudes,  with  that  intense 
happiness,  that  life  and  warmth  which  fall  upon  us  in  the 
glowing  promises  of  our  Lord ;  it  is  not  thus  with  our 
magnificent  heritage  of  the  earth  ;  it  is  not  thus  with  tears 
that  are  dried  away  by  love,  with  the  full  feeling  of  satis 
fied  justice,  and  clear  recognition  of  the  Divine  government. 
Yes,  we  shall  see  God,  and  my  soul  leaps  at  the  thought ; 
yes,  we  shall  taste  of  peace  that  here  our  agitated  hearts 
can  never  know  ;  yes,  we  shall  sing  m;:rvcllous  hymns,  and 
our  bosoms  palpitate  with  joy  ;  yes,  we  shall  adore,  we  shall 
glorify  God ;  but  contemplation,  repose,  celestial  concerts, 
love  and  adoration,  you  shall  be  a  life,  not  an  absorption. 

But  let  us  not  anticipate  ;  let  us  return  to  our  apocryphal 
Paradise, — Chinese  screen,  painted  with  strange  figures, 
which  hides  from  us  the  true  country. 

To  lose  one's-self  in  the  ocean  of  life,  and  to  be  annihi 
lated,  are  the  same  thine; ;  to  be  absorbed  in  unity,  and  to 
\.l.nisli  out  of  being,  are  to  me  the  same  thing. 

To  remain  impassive,  the  whole  of  my  faculties  gathered 
up  in  one,  in  an  adoration  identical  in  us  all ;  this  is  so 


THE  PAR  A  DIKE  WE  FEAR.  227 

opposed  to  everything  I  know,  to  everything  I  am,  that  my 
whole  nature  revolts  from  it. 

Revolted,  saddened,  I  nevertheless  have  submitted  tc 
this  Paradise. 

It  is  so.  This  Paradise  of  Hindoos  and  of  some  Pagan 
philosophers,  is  also  the  Paradise  of  many  Christians.  It 
is  the  heaven  of  very  many,  because  they  can  imagine 
nothing  better. 

They  do  not  love  it,  they  do  not  desire  it,  they  fear  it ; 
nevertheless,  as  the  only  alternative,  they  are  reduced  to 
hope  it. 

After  having  lived,  to  arrive  at  this  new  tribulation  !  to 
plunge  into  this  western  sea  !  to  end  in  this  cheerless  joy, 
of  which  the  individual  has  not  even  a  distinct  conscious 
ness  !  to  become  a  number,  or  something  less, — for  there 
must  be  difference  where  there  is  number, — one  of  the 
identities  fixed  in  space !  This  is  called  spiritual.  A 
heaven  otherwise  fashioned  would  be  material  to  the  re 
fined  intelligences  of  our  age. 

Blessed  be  God  !  He  has  otherwise  ordained  what  shall 
be  spiritual.  His  Paradise,  I  know  the  borders  of  it,  and 
from  these  borders  emerge  so  many  genial  rays  of  warmth 
as  well  as  light,  that  my  heart  burns  within  me.  In  His 
Paradise  I  find  myself  perfected,  sanctified,  with  all  my 
soul,  my  affections,  my  memories.  His  Paradise,  oh,  it  is 
simple  as  it  is  splendid ;  more  grand,  yet  nearer  to  me ; 
life  in  its  personality,  and  personality  in  its  perfect  har 
mony  with  God.  It  is  my  native  country,  not  a  foreign 
land ;  it  is  the  house  of  my  Father,  not  the  temple  of  an 
abstract  divinity.  I  do  not  see  an  indistinguishable  thrimg 
of  phantoms ;  I  meet  brothers  and  dear  friends.  Such  is 
the  happiness  my  nature  craves.  To  such  country  I  deciro 
to  emigrate  ;  the  remotest  view  of  it  sustains  my  courage  j 


228  THE  HE  A  VENLY  HORIZONS. 

there  I  shall  repose  as  one  reposes  in  the  house  cf  a  father. 
I  should  tremble  to  enter  into  your  heaven ;  I  should 
grieve  if  a  friend  entered  it ;  I  can  find  no  consolation,  for 
them  or  for  me,  for  such  a  happiness  ! 

Is  there  any  other  Paradise  that  men  have  created  ? 
Have  I  done  justice  to  human  inventions  ? 

A  vague  idea  of  transmigration  of  souls  may  be  de 
tected,  more  often  than  or.e  would  expect,  in  our  prosaic- 
age.  Dreams  of  the  East  wandering  into  our  latitudes  ; 
.1  know  not  if  they  demand  a  notice, — they  seem  as  dis 
tressful  as  they  are  insane. 

That  Paradise  must  indeed  be  disinherited  of  joy  from 
which  we  are  to  escape  by  recommencing  our  lives.  To 
possess  a  glorious  eternity,  and  to  abandon  it !  Strange 
idea.  To  grovel  again  upon  the  earth ;  to  become  a  little 
child ;  to  struggle  through  the  ignorance  and  incapacity 
and  unreasonable  afflictions  of  youth ;  to  engage  again  in 
the  rude  combats  of  maturity ;  to  suffer  its  deceptions,  to 
sink  under  its  defects,  to  grow  old  again,  and  die, — and 
this  to  gain  the  harbour  at  last,  to  cast  anchor  at  last  ? 
No,  to  resume  the  open  seas  !  Do  not  tell  me  that  sucli 
souls  come  from  Paradise.  If  any  such  there  be,  they 
\vere  enclosed  in  some  subterranean  abode,  deprived  of  air 
and  light ;  they  fled  from  some  desolate  region  ;  they  had 
never  known  the  Paradise  of  God. 

Superstition  (the  guest  of  faithless  as  well  aa  cowardly 
minds)  creates  also  its  Paradise,  transporting  there  the 
vulgar  passions  of  this  earth.  The  legendary  heaven  is,  on 
one  side,  a  pale  insipidity  ;  on  the  other,  a  burlesque  home. 
Ghosts  shadowy  as  moonlight,  or  troubled  as  the  poor  mor 
tals  they  terrify,  glide  through  the  night ;  representations 
of  eternal  felicity  !  Did  ever  ghost  rejoice  the  heart ! 
Have  the  inhabitants  of  heaven  indeed  this  melancholy 


THE  PARADISE  WE  FEAR.  229 

smile,  this  freezing  look  1  Are  they  thus  austere,  or  utterly 
impassive ;  or  do  they  retain  the  rancours  of  the  past  ? 

Distressful  creations  of  the  imagination  ;  tormenting  and 
tormented,  you  come  not  from  the  Paradise  of  God.  You 
know  nothing  of  its  inhabitants.  Father,  brother,  husband^ 
child,  take  here  forms  which  inspire  us  with  terror.  Some 
thing  most  repulsive  envelops  them.  It  is  more  than  a 
modification,  it  is  an  absolute  change.  If  I  go  where  such 
creatures  inhabit,  what  reunion  can  there  be  ?  And  I  also, 
I  am  to  become  a  ghost,  whose  approach  congeals  the  blood 
in  the  veins  !  From  a  living  man  one  is  to  become  the 
impalpable  light. 

What  are  the  agonies  of  separation  itself  compared  to 
the  lying  joys  of  these  figments  of  a  Paradise  1  The  bitter 
ness  of  tears  has  reached  its  height  when  we  lose  for  ever 
a  redeemed  soul  that  loved  us.  And  if  he  is  lost  to  me  in 
the  serene  ether  of  your  fictitious  skies,  I  must  still  mourn 
Mm  inconsolably.  If  you  wish  to  raise  my  soul,  tell  me 
that  he  lives,  he  himself,  and  that  I  shall  see  him  again, 
and  shall  love  him  with  a  love  submissive  to  my  God ;  tell 
me  that  my  individuality  will  not  die,  nor  my  remembrance ; 
tell  me  that  life  is  life,  and  not  a  catalepsy,  not  annihilation. 

Then  my  brow  will  be  uplifted  towards  the  skies,  and 
with  reinvigorated  step  I  shall  pursue  my  pilgrimage. 
But  annihilated,  but  reduced  to  the  state  of  a  luminous 
point ;  if  you  tell  me  this,  I  sink  overwhelmed. 

Up,  dear  brother  !  Give  me  your  hand.  It  is  to  God's 
own  heaven  we  will  walk  together. 


PABT  SECOND. 


THE  SUPREME  TYPE:  A  RISEN  SAVIOUR. 

E  have  been  accustomed  to  the  careful  study  of 
the  Saviour  during  the  years  of  His  earthly  ex 
istence,  to  the  contemplation  of  Him  in  His 
present  glory ;  have  we  sufficiently  meditated  on  the  risen 
Jesus,  during  those  forty  days  of  a  life  at  once  so  mys 
terious  and  so  simple, — led  so  near  us,  led  with  us,  and  yet 
as  far  removed  from  the  conditions  of  our  own  as  the 
heavens  are  from  the  earth  1 

For  my  own  part,  these  few  pages  of  Holy  Writ  have 
PII  ineffable  charm  for  me  ;  I  feel  that  they  contain  the 
very  substance  of  my  dearest  hopes ;  I  am  constantly  re 
verting  to  them,  and  constantly  discovering  some  detail 
which  strengthens  and  comforts  my  heart. 

Jesus  is  the  Atoner,  the  Great  Example,  the  King ;  but 
Jesus  is  also  the  Conqueror  of  Death,  and  this  is  the  cha 
racter  which  best  dispels  my  fears. 

He  did  not  vanquish  it  from  afar,  like  some  god  of  the 
ancient  Olympus  ;  He  did  not  strike  down  the  foe  by 
arrows  shot  from  heights  of  the  empyrean.  No ;  He 
Himself  came  down,  Himself  wrestled  with  Death ;  for  a 
moment  its  cold  hand  was  laid  upon  His  heart,  and  then 
He  arose,  felled  it  to  the  ground  by  His  glance;  and 
walked  our  earth,  as  He  had  done  before. 


232  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

Oh,  how  this  comforts  me  !  A  triumph  won  with  more- 
display,  if  I  may  use  such  a  word,  might  have  dazzled  me ; 
I  doubt  whether  it  would  have  equally  consoled.  The 
very  simplicity  of  the  action  brings  it  within  my  reach. 
The  body  had  lain  down,  it  rises  up ;  no  need  for  this  of 
angels'  trumpets  or  a  convulsed  world.  The  will  of  God 
effected  this ;  God  willed,  life  returned.  The  crucified, 
I  lie  dead  Jesus,  is  the  same  who  walks  now  along  the  shores 
of  Gennesareth,  up  the  Mount  of  Olives ;  He  rises  to  his 
Father,  He  revisits  His  loved  disciples  ;  the  earth  does  not 
quake,  the  slightness  of  the  effort  put  forth  speaks  to  nie 
more  emphatically  of  the  power  of  my  God  than  the  most 
splendid  display  of  His  sovereign  authority. 

I  dearly  love  them,  these  scenes  of  the  Resurrection. 
How  often  I  have  bent  over  them,  seeking  to  penetrate 
deeper  into  their  meaning.  The  sleeping  waters  that  mirror 
by  night  the  star-filled  sky,  do  not  more  faithfully  reflect 
infinite  depths  than  those  few  quiet,  straightforward  nar 
ratives,  sublime  through  their  very  simplicity. 

That  which  chiefly  attracts  me  is  doubtless  the  divine 
radiance  shed  around  by  the  person  of  my  Saviour.  As"  I 
follow  Him  afar  off,  I  seem  to  catch  a  celestial  reflection ; 
I  breathe  the  air  of  Paradise ;  joy  wraps  Die  round  like  a 
garment  of  light ;  but  would  the  picture  move  me  so  deeply 
if  I  only  saw  therein  the  victory  of  a  God  1  It  is  that  of 
a  man,  too,  and  therefore  is  my  soul  so  stirred  within  me. 
I  contemplate  with  moistened  eye  those  three  that  are 
taking  the  road  to  Emmaus ;  my  heart  thrills  at  that  one 
word,  Mary  !  And  when,  at  day's  earliest  dawn,  the  gloomy 
waters  of  the  lake  are  tinged  with  red,  I  cleave  the  waves 
with  Peter,  I  cry  aloud  with  triumphant  voice,  It  is  the 
Lord! 


THE  SUPREME  TYPE:  A  RISEN  SAVIOUR.  233 

Man  has  conquered.  Jesus,  made  like  to  rne  in  Death, 
shall  make  me  like  to  Him  in  life. 

Like  !     It  is  in  this  that  all  my  happiness  consists. 

If  He  had  restored  to  me  life,  life  of  any  kind,  my 
heart  must  needs  have  been  grateful.  But  would  it  have 
boimded  as  it  does  now  at  the  thought  of  the  gift  of  a 
human  resurrection,  identical  with  the  resurrection  of  the 
Lord? 

There  are  some  happinesses  that  crush  us,  as  we  know, 
But  this,  of  which  I  have  fathomed  the  nature,  fills  me 
with,  confidence  as  well  as  with  wonder. 

This  risen  one  is  not  the  Lord  of  I  eannot-tell-what  fai 
sphere,  lost  in  the  bosom  of  the  Infinite.  He  is  my 
Saviour,  I  know  Him.  I  see  Him  again  as  I  saw  Him 
before.  He  remembers  me,  He  loves  me ;  His  face,  those 
1  lands  they  pierced,  I  see  them,  they  are  the  same — 110 
apparition,  no  metamorphosis — only  a  return. 

This  is  so  sweet,  that  I  need  an  absolute  conviction  of 
its  truth. 

And  then,  when  I  have  certified  myself,  another  dcubt 
instantly  rises, — Will  it  be  the  same  in  my  own  case  ? 

Then  I  seek  further,  hard  to  satisfy,  fearful  of  a  too 
ready  belief;  and  repeated  assertions  tell  me  again  and 
again  that  I  am  not  deceiving  myself.  Such  as  the  Lord 
is,  such  shall  His  redeemed  be ;  made  like  to  Him  (in  all 
but  His  Divine  attributes),  bearing  the  image  of  His  glori 
fied  humanity  ;  very  brothers  to  the  Mighty  One,  who  first 
»hook  off  the  grasp  of  death. 

Are  these  vague,  veiled  promises  1  No,  they  are  clear, 
definite,  written  in  fara  iliar  words ;  their  meaning  easily 
apprehended,  impossible  t?  mistake. 

Have  we  to  seek  them  out  from  book  to  book?     No, 


234  THE  BE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

each.  p*vge  presents  them.  This  is  the  centre  whence  n;y 
out  all  the  promises ;  it  is  alike  our  starting-point  and  our 
goal ;  the  whole  edifice  raised  by  the  apostles  rests  on  this 
unchangeable  foundation ;  Jesus  risen  from  the  dead  is  the 
perfect  type  of  risen  man. 

You  understand  now  the  stress  I  lay  upon  the  contem 
plation  of  this  central  figure,  and  my  ardour  in  keeping 
to  it. 

Jesus,  Thou  art  indeed  the  same  Jesus  still  Ye  wh  » 
have  watched  Him  walking  through  the  corn-fields  on 
a  Sabbath  day  :  one  morning  seated  on  the  hillside,  while 
the  little  waves  beat  upon  the  shore  of  Tiberias ;  another, 
climbing  the  grassy  heights  which  divide  Bethsaida  from 
Nazareth ;  or  again,  not  far  from  Cana,  beneath  the  shade 
of  oaks,  whose  branches  bend  beneath  the  honeysuckle  in 
flower,  in  quiet  retreats,  where  turtle-doves  coo,  and  the 
tall  hollyhock,  with  its  brilliant  clusters,  blooms  splendid 
but  unseen ;  behold  Him  again,  for  it  is  indeed  He  ! 

How  often  His  feet  have  trodden  your  paths !  How 
often  your  hills  and  glades  have  heard  His  accents  of  in 
comparable  meekness,  when  moving  slowly  on  in  the  midst 
of  publicans  and  sinners,  a  few  women  following,  He  would 
crV) — «  He  that  believeth  iti  me  hath  eternal  life." 

Do  ye  recognise  Him,  ye  mountains,  ye  waters  ?  There 
on  the  shore — alone  there,  while  Peter  and  John,  with 
their  companions,  are  throwing  their  nets  into  the  lake  ? 

"Children!" — what  a  loving  cry!  Then  comes  that 
question,  the  very  simplicity  of  which  would  offend  many 
if  they  dared  entertain  the  feeling,  which  on  the  contrary 
makes  me  thrill  with  gratitude,  because  I  read  in  it  a  sign 
of  my  Saviour's  permanent  humanity, — "Have  ye  any 
thing  to  eat  ? " 

Then  another  miracle  is  wrought  on  those  waters  which 


THE  SUPREME  TYPE:  A  RISEN  SAVIOUR.  235 

have  witnessed  so  many.  Another  cry  arises  ;  a  cry  of 
tenderness  and  joy, — "  It  is  the  Lord  !" 

Next  see  them  all  reassembled  around  Jesus !  Notice 
the  fish  counted,  the  familiar  meal,  the  touching  intimacy, 
the  perfect  freedom  of  their  conversation  ! 

What  has  passed  since  the  last  supper ;  for,  in  very  deed, 
it  was  but  yesterday  that  Jesus  cut  bread  for  them  as  He 
is  doing  now ;  that  they  questioned  Him  in  like  manner, 
that  the  fishermen  divided  the  waves  with  the  same  steady 
oars,  and  that  the  Son  of  man  wandered  with  His  dis 
ciples  on  the  self-same  grass,  which  has  not  had  time  to 
wither. 

Jesus  has  died ;  Jesus  has  risen  again ;  and  as  He  wore 
our  likeness  in  His  death,  so  we  shall  be  made  like  unto 
Him  in  the  life  to  come. 

Jesus,  come  back  to  us  from  the  unseen  land,  has  forgot 
ten  nothing. 

We  will  not  quit  these  dear,  familiar  shores. 

See,  Jesus  has  taken  Peter  apart !  The  Lord's  face  is 
serious,  not  severe ;  His  lips  utter  a  question,  repeat  it 
again  and  again,  a  little  sadly,  but  so  tenderly  that  it  melts 
the  soul.  Peter  listens,  his  brow  grows  clouded,  his  bent 
head  bends  lower  still ;  he  is  pale,  overwhelmed  with  shame, 
till,  by  a  supreme  effort,  and  with  an  intense  gaze  fixed  full 
upon  the  mild  eye  of  his  denied,  his  adored  Master,  he 
cries, — "  Lord,  tliou  knowest  all  things,  thou  knowest  that 
I  love  thee." 

This  is  how  Jesus  remembers. 

He  remembers  when  He  waits  for  His  disciples  upon  the 
borders  of  the  lake  ;  He  remembers  when  He  appoints  them 
to  meet  Him  on  that  Mount  of  Olives  whither  He  so  often 
led  them  ;  He  remembers  them  when  he  fixes  upon  Bethany, 


236  THE  HE  A  VENL  T  HORIZONS. 

where  He  loved  Martha,  and  Mary,  and  Lazarus,  as  the 
spot  whence  He  was  to  part  from  them,  and  to  be  carried 
up  into  glory. 

What !  Docs  Jesus,  then,  not  retain  the  memory  of  the 
past !  It  were  blasphemy  to  say  so.  He  retains  it  faith 
fully,  tenderly  ;  as  He  has  retained  it,  I  too  shall  retain. 

Jesus  lores  His  own.  He  loved  them  in  the  agony  of 
death.  He  loves  them  in  the  triumph  of  the  resurrection. 

The  dawn  whitens  in  the  East ;  in  the  garden  of  Joseph 
of  Arimathea  it  is  still  dark ;  a  woman  is  standing  there 
beside  the  sepulchre. 

Some  of  the  apostles  have  been  there ;  they  bent  over 
it,  saw  that  it  was  empty,  and,  true  to  their  nature  as  men, 
logical,  prompt  in  decision,  the  fact  once  proved,  they  have 
accepted  it.  But  the  woman  remains  there  still.  Why, 
she  cannot  tell  you  j  only  to  weep,  perhaps ;  to  remember 
and  to  weep  on. 

Some  one  draws  near,  probably  the  gardener.  "Woman 
whom  seekest  thou  ?" 

"  Sir/'  stammers  out  the  poor  woman  through  her  tears, 
"  if  thou  hast  borne  him  hence,  tell  me  where  thou  hast 
laid  him."  Mary  ! — Master  ! 

How  convey  the  full  value  of  these  two  words  !  All  of 
tenderness,  all  of  respect,  the  past  all  recovered,  the  eternal 
future  all  possessed,  love  imperishable,  victorious  for  ever 
and  ever ;— it  is  all  this  I  find  in  them,  and  all  this  fraught 
with  such  ever-increasing '  freshness  and  pervading  power, 
that  night  and  day  my  thoughts  might  plunge  and  find 
unfathomcvl  depths,  that  for  a  whole  eternity  I  might  feed 
my  admiration  thereon,  and  their  immaculate  beauty  be  in 
uo  way  withered. 


THE  SUPREME  TYPE:  A  HlStiN  SAVIOUR.  237 

Again,  Jesus  is  walking  between  the  disciples  on  the 
way  to  Emmaus.  The  road  is  dusty,  the  hour  late ;  the 
Saviour's  countenance  seems  changed ;  something  unfa 
miliar  makes  me  for  a  moment  hesitate,  and  yet,  beneath 
this  apparent  reserve,  I  feel  that  love  is  vibrating. 

"  Why  are  ye  sad  ?"  A  thrill  passes  through  me.  Sweet 
questioning  of  my  Saviour,  I  recognise  you.  It  is  thus  you 
gently  press  all  bitterness  out  of  the  heart ;  to  tell  one's 
sorrows  is  to  find  a  secret  relief.  Jesus  interrogates  His 
children  j  He  makes  them  repeat  what  He  already  knows ; 
then  when  the  last  sigh  of  dejection  has  been  heaved,  He 
in  His  turn  speaks  and  consoles. 

But  there  is  another  detail  that  touches  me  still  more. 
Jesus  "made  as  though  he  ivould  have  gone  farther." 
"  Abide  with  us,  for  it  is  evening."  And  they  constrain 
him  ;  and  Jesus  suffers  Himself  to  be  constrained  !  Then 
their  eyes  are  opened,  then  they  utter  a  simultaneous  cry 
— "  Did  not  our  hearts  burn  within  us  ?" 

My  heart,  too,  is  hot  within  me.  Saviour,  Thou  hast 
loved !  Jesus,  risen  from  the  grave,  Thou  hast  felt  for 
Thine  own  a  love  more  merciful,  more  strong,  more  en 
tirely,  perhaps,  imbued  with  tenderness  and  pity  than  in 
the  days  of  Thy  pilgrimage. 

As  Thou  hast  loved,  my  God,  as  Thou  lovest,  even  so 
shall  I  too  love  ! 

Jesus  rose  from  the  tomb  in  His  entirety.  It  was  no 
spirit  who  appeared  to  the  apostles  when,  gathered  together 
in  the  evening,  they  discussed  the  visions  of  Mary,  and 
refused  them  their  belief.  It  was  no  phantom  \vlio 
walked  in  Galilee ;  it  was  His  own  body,  crucified,  dead, 
risen  again. 


238  THE  PIE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

This  glorious  fact  offends  the  apostles.  It  confounds 
their  preconceived  ideas ;  comes,  as  it  were,  into  collision 
with  their  habitual  train  of  thought. 

An  immortal  soul,  we  are  ready,  indeed,  to  admit  that ; 
\ve  have  not  seen  th3  soul  crumble  into  dust.  But  the 
body  ?  That  ancient  antipathy  of  ancient  philosophy,  that 
rag,  that  vile  thing  through  which  we  are  perishable,  that 
coarse  tyrant  who  subjects  us  to  brutal  appetites,  that 
burden  which  our  encumbered  spirit  can  only  free  itself 
from  by  death ;  that  only  hindrance  to  our  attainment  of 
perfection,  that  animal  part  of  our  nature,  mere  dust  and 
corruption  !  To  revive  that,  to  give  it  its  share  of  eternity, 
more,  its  share  of  glory  ! 

Such  a  subversion  of  human  wisdom  as  this,  such  a 
complete  overthrow  of  received  notions,  could  not  bo 
adopted  all  at  once.  The  apostles  themselves,  who  ad 
mitted  the  resurrection,  who  had  been  present  at  the  con 
troversy  with  the  Sadducees,  and  heard  the  reply  of  Christ, 
who  had  seen  Lazarus  come  forth  from  the  tomb,  even 
they,  believers,  would  not  believe  this.  They  conceive  the 
idea,  but  the  fact  stupifies  them.  In  presence  of  the 
Saviour's  risen  body,  some  are  terrified  and  others  doubt. 
Jesus  must  place  their  fingers  on  His  wounds,  must  eat 
before  them,  must  cry  aloud,  "  Touch  me,  and  see,  for  a 
spirit  hath  not  flesh  and  bones,  as  ye  see  me  have  !"  be 
fore,  for  very  joy,  blended  with  fear,  His  disciples  could 
comprehend  and  believe. 

There  is  an  incredulity  that  arises  from  excess  of  happi 
ness  ;  there  is  a  scepticism  caused  by  the  very  magnificence 
of  Divine  transactions,  Less  grace  would  find  an  easier 
entrance  into  our  narrow  hearts.  A  God  only  half  God,  a 
limited  power,  a  partial  gift,  would  suit  us  better.  But 


THE  SUPREME  TYPE:  A  RISEN  SAVIOUR.  239 

then  this  would  l»e  but  a  less  gloomy  night,  it  would  not 
be  day. 

Jesus  has  risen  again  with  His  body.  My  dead  body, 
too,  shall  live.  My  beloved  ones,  earth  will  restore  your 
bodies  to  me. 

Finally,  Jesus  made  Himself  known  to  His  friends. 

If  the  scarce-dispelled  darkness,  if  the  wonder  of  an 
unheard-of  felicity,  left  Mary  for  a  moment  in  suspense ; 
if  the  eyes  of  the  two  disciples,  journeying  to  Emmaus, 
were  for  a  moment  holden, — how  short  the  doubts,  how 
soon  succeeded  by  perfect  certainty ! 

The  apostles  could  not  be  deceived;  the  evidence  of 
their  senses  affords  an  irrefutable  and  enduring  testimony 
to  the  resurrection  of  their  Lord. 

They  doubted,  indeed,  the  reality  of  the  body  of  Jesus, 
but  never  His  personal  identity.  That  He  was  a  spirit 
they  did,  indeed,  at  first  imagine,  but  never  that  He  was 
any  other  than  Jesus.  Whether  assembled  in  an  upper 
chamber,  or  alone ;  in  the  garden,  or  on  the  mountain  side, 
it  is  always  one  and  the  same  cry  that  bursts  from  their 
lips,  "The  Master!" 

To  have  seen  is  enough,  is  all.  They  saw,  they  knew. 
They  needed  no  other  proof  than  just  to  look ;  that  done, 
there  was  no  more  hesitation.  For  a  moment  two  of  His 
disciples  failed  to  recognise  Him,  but  only  because  their 
eyes  were  holden.  When  their  eyes  were  opened,  they 
knew  Him  at  once ;  nothing  more  was  wanted. 

In  proportion  as  these  meetings  with  the  Saviour  were 
multiplied,  their  doubt,  nay,  even  their  surprise,  vanished, 
so  that,  even  after  a  night  of  watching  on  the  Lake  of  Gen- 
nesareth,  with  heavy  eyes  and  weary  ears,  a  simple  word  (a 


240  TEE  HE  A  JEKL  Y  HOUIZONS. 

enough  for  them  :  "  Children  !"  And  John  exclaims  aloud, 
and  Peter  dashes  in,  and  swims  to  shore.  It  is  thus  that 
I  shall  knDW  again,  shall  be  known  again. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  a  change,  a  difference. 
Jesus,  who  before  never  left  His  disciples  save  for  a 
night  of  solitary  prayer,  now  leaves  them  often,  for  a 
long  time,  and  no  one  knows  where  He  is  gone  to.  His 
absence  used  to  be  a  rare  occurrence,  His  presence  has  be 
come  so  now.  Formerly  they  had  life  in  common,  now 
only  interviews.  Doubtless,  these  were  more  numerous, 
more  prolonged  than  we  commonly  suppose.  A  very 
marked  allusion  of  St  John's  leads  us  to  this  conclusion ; 
but  the  risen  Saviour  lives  under  new  conditions ;  His 
body  has  faculties  which  excite  our  wonder  as  well  as  our 
admiration.  The  obstacles  which  once  impeded,  impede 
it  no  longer.  He  conies  in  and  goes  out,  the  doors  being 
shut.  He  is  here,  then  there,  and  no  human  eye  has 
marked  His  passage  from  place  to  place.  On  the  morning 
of  the  resurrection  He  says  to  Mary,  "  Touch  me  not,  for  I 
am  not  yet  ascended  to  my  Father."  He  ascends,  He  de 
scends  to  earth  again,  and  says  to  Thomas,  "  Reach  hither 
thy  hand,  and  put  it  into  my  side." 

A  deep  mystery  spreads  its  veil  before  our  gaze. 
Until  the  hour  of  His  glorious  reappearing,  heaven  is 
become  the  Saviour's  domain.     He  traverses  its  immeasur 
able  space,  and,  returning,  seats  Himself  no  longer — being 
weary — by  Jacob's  well. 

What  though  He  taste  indeed  a  piece  of  honeycomb, 
those  touching  words,  "  He  hungered,"  can  never  more  be 
said  of  Him. 

Still  man,  His  humanity  has  put  on  glory,  has  put  off 
infirmity.  And  this  is  formed  a  grand,  a  beautiful  per- 


THE  SUPREME  TYPE:  A  RISEN  SAVIOUR.  241 

sonality,  which  we  see  indeed,  but  cannot  fully  compre 
hend. 

Be  it  so.  What  matters  comprehension  when  I  have 
faith, — have  the  fact  before  me  ? 

When  the  resurrection-day  comes,  there  will  be  no  more 
obscurity.  Meanwhile,  strengthen  thyself,  my  heart. 

Need  we  recapitulate  ?  Are  not  the  characteristics  of 
Jesus  awaked  from  death,  self-evident,  luminous,  definite  ? 

Man  after  it,  as  Thou  wert  man  before ;  with  Thy  per 
sonal  identity  entire ;  with  Thy  memories,  Thy  affections 
unchanged,  risen  in  a  glorious  body,  recognised  by  Thy 
people, — such  art  Thou,  my  Saviour  ! 

A  light  has  burst  forth ;  its  radiance  reveals  the  far  per 
spective  of  the  world  to  come.  Rejoice,  my  soul,  at  a 
happiness  within  the  reach  of  thy  faculties.  Do  as  did 
the  Apostles ;  Look,  and  thou  shalt  see 


THE  SLEEPLESSNESS  OF  THE  SOUL. 


HE  soul  does  not  sleep,  it  lives ;  it  is  the  body 
that  lies  low  in  the  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 


Can  you  conceive  a  sleeping  soul,  a  dreamless  sleep  ?  I 
find  that  such  a  state  borders  too  closely  upon  annihilation, 
not  to  excite  in  man  extreme  repulsion.  In  fact,  it  is 
temporary  annihilation. 

To  cease  to  exist  during  centuries,  perhaps  ages  ;  to  give 
up  a  life  throbbing  with  the  love  of  the  Saviour ;  to  be 
frozen  up  after  the  fashion  of  antediluvian  mammoths ;  to 
exchange  the  activity  of  thought,  the  full  employment  of 
every  faculty,  for  a  suspension  that  amounts  to  total  ex 
tinction, — to  speak  frankly,  does  this  prospect  fill  your 
heart  with  joy  ?  Mine  remains  aghast  at  it. 

Nevertheless,  if  the  Word  of  God  declares  this,  we  needs 
must  submit  to  it.  How  many  men,  of  high  consideration, 
affirm  that  it  does  ! 

One  word,  one  only,  authorizes  this  opinion ;  a  very 
strong  word,  it  is  true,  and  often  repeated,  the  word  sleep 

Death  is  sleep  ;  those  who  die  fall  asleep. 

What  remains  to  be  said  in  reply  ? 

Much ;  nay,  all. 

The  word  is  there,  no  doubt.  But  as  long  as  its  mean 
ing  is  undefined,  the  question  remains  open.  In  what 
sense  are  we  to  take  this  word  "  sleep  ? "  How  is  it  applied 


THE  SLEEPLESSNESS  OF  THE  SCUL.     243 

in  the  Scriptures  ?  This  is  what  it  concerns  us  to  know. 
This  alone  will  solve  the  difficulty. 

This  word  applies  to  the  body,  not  in  any  sense  to  the 
soul 

It  is  the  body  that  sleeps,  absolutely  unconcerned  by  all 
that  goes  on  in  this  world  or  in  the  other.  It  sleeps 
heavily,  no  voice  can  rouse  it,  not  even  that  dear  voice  whose 
lightest  whisper  sufficed  to  thrill  it  during  the  days  of 
life  on  earth. 

You  know  it  but  too  well,  that  implacable  sleep  j  you 
who  have  folded  in  a  last  embrace  that  poor  body,  indiffer 
ent  now  to  every  appeal  of  yours.  An  houi  ago,  it  saw 
your  tears,  your  pale  face  ;  it  sees  them  no  longer.  All 
that  the  soul  saw  and  heard,  those  angelic  messengers  that 
God  often  sends  to  light  it  on  its  passage ;  the  body,  if  it 
saw  them  at  all,  sees  and  hears  no  longer.  It  has  fallen 
clown  inert,  it  remains  inert,  and  the  immortal  germ  that 
God  has  placed  within  it,  the  spark  which  His  breath 
will  re-kindle,  is  so  deeply  buried  in  dust  and  ashes,  that 
no  human  search  can  ever  discover  it. 

Has  the  soul  then  succumbed  ?  Is  the  spirit  paralysed  ? 
Let  us  draw  near,  and  examine  more  closely  into  this. 
This  dreadful  word  "sleep,"  will — thanks  to  Jesus  who 
applied  it  to  Himself — at  once  assume  its  own  proper  and 
circumscribed  meaning. 

Here  is  the  garden  of  Joseph ;  here  is  the  sepulchre. 
The  body  of  Jesuy  is  resting  there  !  What  says  Holy 
Writ  ? — Jesus  sleeps. 

He  sleeps  !  This  is  the  language  employed  by  Scripture. 
When  Scripture  speaks  of  Jesus  dying,  they  say,  He  fell 
asleep.  When  they  speak  of  His  resurrection,  it  is  as 
of  awaking  out  of  sleep. 

No  distinction  is  here  maie  between  the  body  and  tho 


244  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

soul  of  the  Son  of  God.  If  we  take  the  sleep  of  death  in 
an  absolute  sense,  the  whole  nature  of  Jesus  was,  for  a 
season,  subjugated  by  I  know  not  what  lethargy.  For 
three  days  the  spirit  of  Jesus,  the  Lord  of  Life,  remained 
paralysed,  benumbed.  You  might  have  traversed  the 
Whole  earth,  its  height  and  depth  ;  you  might  have  sounded 
the  immensity  of  heaven,  nowhere  would  you  have  met 
with  Jesus  !  For  three  whole  days  the  Word — He  who 
could  say  of  Himself,  I  am — He,  even  He,  was  not. 

Does  not  the  shudder  occasioned  by  such  a  thought  as 
this  at  once  convince  you  of  its  sacrilegious  absurdity  1 

Well  then,  the  whole  of  revelation  declares  of  Jesus  that 
He  slept. 

If  it  says  this  of  Him,  it  may  well  say  it  of  us.  There 
is  nothing  in  that  which  need  terrify  us  any  longer. 

The  Pharisees  said  it  when  they  set  a  watch  around  His 
tomb — "We  remember  that  that  deceiver  said,  In  three 
days  I  will  awake,  arise  again." 

The  angels  implied  it  when,  seated  by  the  sepulchre, 
they  reassure  the  sorrowing  women, — "Ye  seek  Jesus  of 
Nazareth,  who  was  crucified.  He  is  not  here,  he  is  risen." 

Jesus  said,  speaking  of  himself :  "  When  I  am  risen  I 
will  go  before  you  into  Galilee." 

The  apostles  repent  the  phrase  :  "  He  rose  again  the 
third  day."  "  God  raised  Him  from  the  dead."  Let  us 
believe  on  Him  who  raised  Him  up. 

Dust,  thou  shall  return  to  thy  dust !  I  know  thee,  thou 
fearful  sentence,  thou  art  nothing  new.  Ever  since  the 
days  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  thou  hast  struck  at  our  bodies  ; 
our  souls  disown  and  defy  thee  !  The  soul  can  no  moie 
sleep  than  it  can  die. 

Have  you  still  one  lingering  doubt  ?  The  last  sigh  of 
the  Saviour  will  dispel  it  for  you. 


THE  SLEEPLESSNESS  OF  THE  SOUL.    243 

"  Father,  into  thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit."  Death 
takes  his  own  portion,  but  the  living  spirit  returns  to  the 
land  of  life.  For  three  days  the  body  shall  remain  laid  in 
the  tomb,  treated  as  a  holy  thing,  but  still  as  a  thing  ;  it 
shall  be  wrapped  in  a  shroud,  heaped  about  with  spices ; 
sleep  shall  weigh  the  eyelids  down,  paralyse  the  limbs,  but 
not  the  spirit.  Death,  thou  canst  not  touch  that !  The 
spirit  will  patiently  await  in  God's  presence  the  hour  when, 
returning  into  the  very  body  it  left,  it  will  raise  it  up  on 
its  feet,  soar  with  it  to  the  Father,  re-descend  to  earth,  sit 
down  in  glory. 

This  is  not  yet  all !  Listen  to  a  decisive  sentence  of  the 
Saviour— 

"  I  lay  down  my  life  to  take  it  up  again.  I  have  power 
both  to  lay  it  down,  and  to  take  it  up." 

Who  is  this  7 :  this  victorious  /,  who  is  it  ?  Who  is 
the  one  who,  being  dead,  commands  life  to  return  ?  It  is 
the  soul ;  the  soul  which  can  neither  slumber  nor  sleep. 

Be  at  ease ;  we  shall  sleep  as  Jesus  slept.  It  is  thus 
that  sleep  our  loved  ones.  Their  bodies,  that  is  to  say ; 
never  their  souls. 

This  subject  is  one  that  must  be  thoroughly  examined. 
When  only  indistinctly  revealed,  it  saddens  us ;  placed 
under  a  full,  strong  light,  it  causes  our  hearts  to  dance 
with  joy. 

Let  us  return  in  thought  to  days  long  past ;  remount 
the  stream  of  time. 

Here  we  meet  with  Abraham.  In  the  midst  of  the 
terrors  of  night  and  darkness,  he  has  been  visited  by  a 
vision.  The  Lord  has  spoken  to  him,  "Thou  shalt  be 
gathered  to  thy  fathers."  Do  these  words  apply  to  the 
Patriarch's  earthly  remains '(  will  his  bones  be  carried  to 


246  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  IIOVJZONS. 

Padan-Aram,  from  the  land  of  Canaan  to  the  country 
whence  he  originally  came  ?  Not  so.  Abraham  having 
died  in  a  strange  country,  is  buried  in  the  cave  of  Hebron  : 
there  rests  his  body  ;  his  dust  will  not  be  mingled  with 
that  of  the  plains  of  Mesopotamia.  It  is  the  soul  that  is 
spoken  of ;  the  soul  is  living  still ;  the  soul  goes  whither 
Ins  fathers  have  gone. 

Again,  God  meets  Isaac  in  the  valleys  of  Beersheba,  and 
says,  "  I  am  the  God  of  Abraham  thy  father."  To  Jacob 
he  says,  "  I  am  the  God  of  Isaac." 

To  the  people  of  Israel,  "  I  am  the  God  of  Jacob/' 

Magnificent  name  ! — His  name  throughout  all  ages  !  "I 
AM  !" — not  I  ivas.  Jesus  declares  Him  God  of  the  living, 
riot  of  the  dead,  not  of  the  sleeping. 

David  cries  aloud,  "Thou  wilt  not  leave  my  soul  in 
Hades."  Prophet,  he  announces  the  resurrection  of  Christ ; 
believer,  he  expresses  the  fulness  of  his  own  conviction. 

And  Ecclesiastes  responds  to  him,  "  Then  shall  the  dust 
return  to  the  earth  as  it  was,  and  the  spirit  unto  God  who 
gave  it." 

Long  before  then,  the  Lord  on  Sinai  came  to  hold  con 
verse  with  Moses  from  the  midst  of  ten  thousand  of  his 
saints,  living  saints,  not    sleeping.     Long  after,  the  dry 
bones  gathered  themselves  into  battle  array  at  Ezekiel's 
voice  ;  but,  lo  !  the  spirit  had  not  yet  returned  into  them. 

Who  is  that  who  rises  down  there  on  the  plains  of 
Endor,  in  presence  of  the  pale  and  trembling  king  ?  A 
phantom  1  No ;  Samuel  himself,  the  judge  of  Israel. 
"  Why  hast  thou  disquieted  me  1  To-morrow  thou  shalt  be 
with  me,  thou  and  thy  sons." 

Who  are  they  who  appear  on  the  holy  mountain,  talk 
ing  there  with  the  transfigured  Jesus  ?  Two  of  the  dead  : 
Elijah,  carried  up  body  and  soul  to  heaven  ;  Moses,  wlios« 


THE  SLEPLEESSNESS  OF  THE  SOUL.     2-17 

body  is  still  hidden  in  some  mountain- hollow  on  the  other 
side  of  Jordan.  Do  they  sleep  ?  Have  they  slept  ?  No ; 
both  have  come  from  the  land  of  life ;  both  will  return 
thither ;  their  faces  are  lit  with  celestial  glory. 

What  says  Jesus  to  the  little  daughter  of  Jairus? 
"  Maiden,  arise  ! "  The  stiffened  frame  lifts  itself  up ; 
the  heart  beats,  the  child  walks, — and  why  ?  Her  spirit 
has  returned  into  her. 

Behold  a  spectacle  at  once  magnificent  and  terrible  !  A 
poor  man,  covered  with  sores,  yields  up  his  las!  suffering 
breath,  and  is  borne  by  angels  into  Abraham's  bosom.  A 
rich  man  lives  in  splendour,  dies,  is  buried,  and  then — I 
see  him  in  a  place  of  torment.  This  fate  follows  instantly 
upon  his  death ;  for  amongst  the  inhabitants  of  earth  are 
numbered  the  brothers  of  the  man  clothed  in  purple  and 
line  linen. 

A  parable,  you  say. 

I  know  it,  and  know  that  to  draw  too  rigorous  deduc 
tions  from  it,  would  be  to  pervert  its  meaning.  Neverthe 
less,  it  has  a  meaning,  else  of  what  use  would  it  be  ?  When 
the  Lord  spoke  it,  He  designed  it  to  announce  a  truth,  else 
He  would  not  have  done  so.  Was  its  only  purport  to 
teach  the  Jews  that,  after  this  life  ended,  there  were  feli 
cities  and  torments  both  ?  The  Jews  knew  that  perfectly 
well  What,  then,  did  the  parable  teach?  The  striking 
fact,  that  the  soul  cannot  sleep,  that  it  merely  passes 
through  death,  does  not  linger  in  it,  that  it  is  immediately 
happy  or  unhappy,  one  or  the  other,  and  that  it  can  only 
be  either  through  being  a  living  soul. 

Do  you  not  at  once  see  the  moral  influence  of  this  fact  ? 
A  thousand  years  of  lethargy ;  that  is  a  long  period.  A 
state  of  pain  or  a  state  of  enjoyment  divided  from  us  by 
such  an  interval,  does  not  affect  me  much  with  joy  or  fear- 


248  Tn  E  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

You  will  tell  ine  that  a  thousand  years  are  as  one  day ! 
Yes,  in  the  Lord's  eyes  they  are  so.  But  as  for  me,  a 
finite  creature,  with  my  standard  of  time,  I  count  the 
thousand  years  as  they  are  here  upon  this  earth  where  I 
am  ;  in  spite  of  myself,  I  see  them  in  the  light  of  a  reprieve, 
and  from  that  moment  it  is  no  longer  my  soul  that  sleeps, 
but  my  conscience. 

My  pen  has  stumbled  upon  that  word  catalepsy. 

There  are  indeed  cataleptics.  There  are  people  whose 
senses  are  all  suspended,  who  cannot  see,  who  are  consi 
dered  dead,  who  are  dead  in  common  parlance.  Oh,  but 
are  they  really  so?  Those  motionless  eyes  follow  your 
movements,  those  frozen  ears  catch  all  your  broken  words ; 
each  latent  faculty,  preternaturally  excited  by  the  con. 
straint  laid  on  it,  has  acquired  increased  intensity  ;  life  is 
there,  entire,  vibrating,  condensed.  And  when  the  blood 
begins  again  to  circulate  and  the  lips  unclose,  when  that 
frightful  torture  of  the  living  soul  within  the  corpse  is 
ended,  it  is  found  that  never  before  did  the  heart  feel  so 
strongly,  the  mind  think  so  intensely.  And  shall  we  still 
believe  in  the  sleep  of  the  soul ! 

But  I  return  to  the  proofs  afforded  me  by  revelation. 

Judas,  who  strangled  himself,  went,  say  the  Scriptures, 
to  his  own  place.  You  shudder.  Sleep  has  no  such  ter 
rors. 

Paul  calls  us  felloiv-citizens  with  the  saints.  The  city  is 
alive,  its  citizens  are  awake,  are  stirring,  acting ;  a  city  of 
sleepers  would  be  rather  a  necropolis  than  a  city;  the 
fellow-citizens  of  saints  are  fellow-citizens  of  the  living. 

The  same  apostle  exclaims  :  "  Ye  are  not  come  unto 
Sinai,  ye  are  come  unto  mount  Zion,  to  the  general  assem 
bly,  ...  to  the  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect" 

These   spirits  are    living   at   this    present  hour  in   th« 


THE  SLEEPLESSNESS  OF  THE  SOUL.     249 
presence  of  God;   for  the  body  is  dead,  but  ike  spirit  it 

iij\ 

Do  we  need  further  argument  ? 

Yes ;  there  is  still  much  to  be  said.  A  single  \vord  has 
given  birth  to  the  notion  of  the  soul's  temporary  annihila 
tion  ;  another  word  refutes  it — departure. 

The  soul  departs,  says  the  Bible.  We  depart  from  our 
homes.  In  order  to  depart,  we  must  be  alive.  My  home 
is  not  myself.  My  home  without  me  remains  a  dead? 
deserted  thing.  Doors  closed,  windows  closed,  silence 
everywhere.  Meanwhile  I,  this  living  I,  am  elsewhere, 
am  animating  some  other  dwelling  with  my  presence. 

Then,  as  for  the  desire  to  depart  so  often  expressed  by 
the  apostles,  how  can  we  understand  it  if  sleep  follows 
upon  death  ?  Such  a  desire  would  be  simply  unreasonable. 
What !  I  want  to  quit  this  earth  where  I  serve  my  God, 
where  I  feel,  where  I  love ;  I  want  to  quit  it  that  I  may 
sleep.  Only  a  despairing  lassitude  can  prompt  such  a  wish 
as  this ;  never  will  it  be  felt  by  a  Christian  in  the  full 
exercise  of  his  faculties,  his  faith,  and  his  affections.  Such 
a  one  will  never  prefer  lethargy  to  labour.  Living,  he  may 
glorify  his  God  ;  living,  he  may  save  souls  ;  living,  he  may 
comfort  the  mourner ;  but  paralysed,  congealed,  a  thing 
and  not  a  being,  even  the  power  to  dream  is  not  permitted 
him  any  longer. 

Paul  aspires  after  deliveranc  3 ;  he  shall  tell  us  why. 
"  When  at  home  in  the  body  we  are  absent  from  the  Lord. 
Therefore  we  desire  to  depart,  that  we  may  be  present  with 
the  Lord."  Here  is  his  motive.  St  Paul  would  fain  de 
part,  not  to  escape  the  sorrows  of  existence.  A  soldier 
does  not  shun  the  battle,  that  he  may  receive  the  prize. 
Besides,  St  Paul,  in  repeating  it,  further  defines  Ids 
thought.  "We  are  willing  rather  to  be  absent  from  the 


250  T1IE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

body,  that  we  may  be  present  with  the  Lord."  Absent 
from  the  body  !  What  is  it  that  is  absent  ?  My  soul. 
Whither  does  it  go  ?  Into  the  presence  of  the  Lord 

I  fear  to  dwell  too  long  upon  the  subject,  to  weary  the 
reader ;  but  I  must  needs  recall  that  other  expression  of 
Paul's,  when,  his  heart  wrung  with  anxiety  about  the  new 
converts  whom  he  feared  to  leave,  his  soul  possessed  with 
the  desire  to  behold  Jesus,  he  wrote  those  lines  so  impres 
sively  true,  so  touchingly  natural, — "  I  am  in  a  strait  be 
twixt  two,  having  a  desire  to  depart  and  to  be  with  Christ, 
which  is  far  better ;  nevertheless,  to  abide  in  the  flesh  is 
more  needful  for  you." 

One  irrefragable  testimony  remains  :  I  have  kept  it  to 
the  last. 

Three  crosses  rise  on  Golgotha.  On  one  of  these,  with 
arms  outstretched,  the  royal  title  above  His  head,  pro 
claiming  to  the  universe  how  Israel  treats  the  Son  of  God, 
sec  Jesus  die.  They  ridicule  Him.  Insults  are  hurled  at 
Him  on  all  sides  by  the  angry  crowd,  and  fall  blunted  on 
that  brow,  which  grows  pale  beneath  the  Divine  wrath. 
Jews,  Romans,  all  alike  blaspheme.  More  bitter,  more 
caustic  still,  fraught  with  more  fearful  irony,  the  sarcasm 
heard  from  the  neighbouring  cross, — "If  thou  be  the 
Christ,  save  thyself  and  us." 

Then,  before  any  answer  can  be  returned,  a  voice  is  lifted 
up,  plaintive  but  firm,  humble  but  vibrating  with  hope  : 
"  This  man  has  done  nothing  amiss ;  we  indeed  suffer 
justly  ; "  then  that  supreme  prayer  :  "  Remember  me,  when 
thou  comest  into  thy  kingdom.'' 

Jesus  answers  :  "  To-day,  verily  I  say  unto  thee,  to-day 
thou  shalt  be  with  me  in  Paradise." 

What  a  contrast !  Have  you  seized  its  full  power  ?  It 
is  as  though  Jesus  said — 


TH.E  SLEEPLESSNESS  OF  THE  SOUL.     251 

'•You  thought  to  fall  asleep;  you  thought  that  ages 
after  ages  would  heap  their  dust  on  your  torpid  spirit ;  to 
day,  as  soon  as  the  brutal  club  of  the  Roman  soldiers  shall 
have  broken  thy  bones,  to-day  thou  shalt  be  with  me.  For 
me,  I  do  not  sleep.  My  soul  enters  triumphantly  into  it3 
kingdom ;  finds  its  ransomed  ones  there,  other  ransomed 
spirits  coming,  one  after  the  other,  to  rejoin  it;  to-day, 
not  later,  Paradise  will  open  for  thee ;  and  when,  at  the 
appointed  day,  I  re-descend  as  Sovereign  Judge,  it  is  with 
my  saints,  the  armies  of  my  saints,  my  living  not  sleeping 
saints,  that  I  shall  return  to  earth." 

No  man  can  number  these  saints. 

Do  you  see,  too,  in  the  pages  of  the  Apocalypse — those 
eouls  hidden  under  the  altar?  Moved  with  holy  impa 
tience,  they  cry, — "  How  long,  0  Lord  !  how  long  ! " 

Do  you  mark  the  myriads  clothed  in  symbolic  white 
garments,  come  out  of  great  tribulation,  and  glorifying  the 
Lord,  while  the  last  scenes  of  our  earth's  history  are  being 
accomplished  ?  These  are  the  elect,  happy  at  this  present 
hour,  but  still  aspiring,  waiting  for  the  redemption  of  the 
body. 

And  now  if,  by  a  singular  reaction  having  been  once 
offended  by  the  idea  of  a  glorified  body,  you  are  amazed 
at  the  idea  of  a  soul  deprived  of  its  body  and  yet  living,  of 
a  soul  that  perceives,  feels,  thinks,  I  have  to  ask  you, 
whether  you  have  never  dreamed;  if  you  do  not  know 
what  it  is  to  traverse  earth  and  skies  in  the  imaginations 
of  your  sleep  ;  if  it  has  never  happened  to  you,  as  it  were, 
to  act,  to  speak,  to  live  long  years  in  one  second  of  time ; 
to  be  your  own  identical,  complete  self,  the  body  only 
excepted. 

And  then  I  have  to  point  you  to  St  Paul  caught  up  to 
the  third  heaven,  whether  in  the  body  or  out  nf  the  bodj 


252  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

he  knows  not.  I  point  you  to  a  Daniel,  an  Ezekiel,  a  St 
John  j  to  all  the  prophets  in  their  trances  and  their  visions, 
and  I  say  to  you,  Do  not  anderrate  any  longer  the  power 
of  God,  the  inalienable  vitality  of  our  own  moral  being. 

We  are  convinced ;  we  know  now  to  a  certainty  that 
there  is  no  state  of  torpor  for  our  dead. 

Their  slumber  weighed  like  lead  upon  our  soul  It 
almost  made  us  rebel  against  the  decrees  of  the  Most  High, 
our  bereavements  became  intolerable.  How  can  we  but 
regret  life  for  those  who  sleep  1  The  most  laborious  exist 
ence,  the  most  troubled  and  tormented,  is  at  least  better 
than  annihilation.  The  weary  may  at  least  love,  the  suffer 
ing  may  glorify  God ;  but  the  unconscious  tenants  of  the 
tomb  have  neither  heart  nor  tongue  with  which  to  praise 
the  Lord. 

Would  I  wake  you  out  of  sleep,  my  beloved  one  1  Yes. 
Must  I  needs  rebel  against  the  will  which  has  snatched  you 
out  of  existence,  to  cast  you  into  a  liuibo,  full  of  silence 
and  of  gloom  1  Yes.  Do  I  find  such  a  decree  inexplicable, 
unjust,  cruel  ?  I  do. 

Would  I  recall  you  from  Paradise,  from  the  very  fount 
of  life ;  would  I  plunge  you  again  into  our  darknesses,  our 
sins ;  could  I  fail  to  bless  through  all  my  tears  the  merciful 
decree  which  has  transported  you  to  the  seats  of  everlasting 
bliss  ?  Never. 

The  way  opens  out  before  us.  It  does  not  lead  down  to 
the  darksome  bowels  of  the  earth ;  it  rises  to  the  highest 
heavens. 

Let  us  no  longer  look  for  the  living  amongst  the  dead 


PERSONAL  IDENTITY 

|ITHOUT  personal  identity,  I  can  compiehend 
neither  heaven  nor  earth ;  we  should  fall  into 
mere  ciphers  ranged  in  line  with  other  ciphers. 
All  relation  between  this  life  and  the  next  would  be  done 
away ;  we  should  find  ourselves  in  presence  of  two  worlds 
entirely  unlike,  two  races  absolutely  unknown  to  each  other. 
Not  a  single  link  to  bind  the  heavenly  to  the  earthly ;  and 
as  an  inevitable  consequence,  divine  justice  giving  way,  and 
my  interest  in  my  own  soul  vanishing  quite. 

Justice  is  just  only  so  long  as  it  is  applied  to  the  very 
individual  who  has  committed  the  good  or  the  bad  action. 
If  you  take  away  identity,  you  destroy  the  individual. 
His  conduct  is  no  longer  part  of  himself.  It  may,  indeed, 
be  his  arm  which  is  raised  to  kill,  his  hand  which  is  opened 
to  give ;  but  from  the  moment  you  do  away  with  the  in 
dividuality  of  the  soul,  you  do  away  with  all  responsibility. 
The  crimes  or  virtues  of  a  being  thus  deprived  of  person 
ality,  you  might  as  well  reward  or  punish  in  his  neighbour 
as  in  himself. 

This  is  so  incontestable,  that  the  law  does  not  punish 
the  insane  ;  merely  shuts  them  up,  to  prevent  their  injur 
ing  society. 

A  crime  committed  in  full  possession  of  reason  even,  if 
it  be  followed  by  madness,  does  not  draw  down  upon  a 
man  the  sentence  of  the  law  We  do  not  execute  a  madman ; 


254  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

we  incarcerate  him.     If  his  reason  returns,  the  law  takes 
its  course. 

But  in  no  case  can  it  be  put  in  force  against  the  virtually 
absent. 
•     So  much  for  justice. 

As  for  the  interest  I  take  in  my  own  future,  that  noble 
sentiment  which  leads  me  to  respect  my  own  soul,  to  seek 
to  perfect  it,  to  desire  its  holiness  and  happiness ;  if  I  am 
myself  no  longer,  I  lose  that  sentiment  altogether.  In  fact, 
the  fate  of  a  Chinese  is  much  more  important  to  me.  I 
may  know  that  Chinese,  may  meet  him  in  the  life  to  come, 
but,  from  the  moment  that  I  lose  my  identity,  find  myself, 
recognise  myself  no  longer,  I  become  self-indifferent. 

Punishment !  no  doubt  it  will  be  distressing  to  that 
other  individual  to  undergo  it.  Happiness  !  no  doubt  he 
will  enjoy  it  if  it  be  granted  him  ;  he  has  my  best  wishes, 
my  charity  reaches  so  far.  But  not  farther ;  not  to  any 
effort,  to  any  sacrifice  for  his  sake.  I  repeat,  I  should 
exert  myself  more  for  a  Chinaman. 

$o  much  for  the  moral  aspect. 

But  there  is  more  than  this,  the  doctrine  of  imperson 
ality  which  militates  against  our  common  sense,  tears  our 
heart  as  well. 

I  have  seen  a  father  depart :  I  shall  meet  again  with 
a  nameless  being.  All  our  life  has  been  blended  with 
the  life  of  a  friend  ;  nothing  will  remain  of  our  former  at 
tachment.  A  stranger  myself,  I  shall  take  my  pl;uv 
amongst  strangers.  AVe  shall  not  even  be  able  to  speak  of 
the  earth,  for  I  shall  not  know  if  there  be  an  earth  or  not, 
the  link  between  it  and  me  will  be  broken. 

What  a  heaven  !  one  would  be  better  off  in  a  jail.  There 
we  might  be  uncomfortable,  we  should  at  least  still  be  oui- 
selves. 


PERSONAL  IDENTITY.  253 

There  is  this  to  be  said,  however,  it  is  not  God  who  has 
broken  the  link  we  bewail.  We  find  no  trace  in  Scripture 
of  a  system,  that  by  way  of  fitting  man  for  everlasting  life, 
begins  by  substracting  from  him  his  own  self.  No  book 
respects  individuality  more  than  the  Bible.  There  is  even. 
i  marked  contrast  between  the  Divine  wisdom  and  our 
own,  in  that  God,  who  might  absorb  all,  jealously  preserves 
our  moral  personality ;  while  our  terrestrial  philosophers, 
despising  men  in  their  zeal  for  man,  willingly  sacrifice  the 
right  of  the  individual  to  the  good  of  the  great  whole. 

The  individual  has  a  permanent  existence  in  the  sight 
of  God  ;  the  individual  is  entirely  lost  sight  of  by  the  great 
majority  of  philosophers.  They  have  invented  a  final  ab 
sorption  into  the  Divine  essence ;  God  has  left  His  work 
as  He  originally  conceived  it — very  simple,  and  answering 
to  our  common  sense. 

A  common  centre  into  which  all  are  absorbed ;  such  is 
the  idea  struck  out  by  human  wisdom.  Each  one  answer 
ing  for  himself,  there  in  heaven  as  on  earth,  such  is  tho 
work  of  God. 

Jesus  knows  His  sheep  by  name.  The  very  angels  have 
their  special  characters  and  distinctive  appellations.  Gab 
riel  is  one,  Michael  another. 

In  the  presence  of  God  each  individual  has  his  proper 
life.  One  town,  one  people,  is  not  confounded  with  a 
neighbouring  town,  a  neighbouring  people. 

The  word  each,  or  equivalent  expressions,  so  constantly 
iipplied  to  man  when  removed  to  his  eternal  abode,  guard;" 
and  maintains  personality. 

He  that  soweth  sparingly  shall  reap  sparingly.  My  re 
\vard  is  with  me,  to  render  to  every  one  according  to  hh 
work.  Every  man's  work  shall  be  manifest.  He  that  over- 
comcth  shall  be  clothed  in  "vhite  raiment.  T  will  nut  b]->t 


256  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

out  his  name  from  the  Book  of  Life.     Each  one  shaft  dt> 
swer  for  himself. 

I  do  not  know  how  an  inalienable  individuality  could 
have  been  more  definitely  expressed. 

Identity  !  yes,  we  grant  you  that,  some  will  reply.  But 
memory ! 

Yes,  there  are  people  who  come  and  calmly  tell  you, — 
There  will  be  no  remembrance  in  heaven. 

I  have  said  that,  without  personal  identity,  I  could  con 
ceive  neither  heaven  nor  earth.  Can  you  conceive  of  them 
without  memory  ? 

As  for  the  earth  under  such  a  condition,  it  is  palpable 
that  it  would  be  but  a  madhouse. 

And  heaven  ? 

I  am  there  in  the  celestial  regions.  I  am  there  !  This 
is  easily  said,  but  who  is  this  individual  whom  you  affirm 
to  be  me  1  he  is  a  perfect  stranger,  for  I  have  no  recollection 
of  Mm.  Me  ?  oh,  where,  at  what  time,  in  what  place  1 
While  you  leave  me  ignorant  of  those  details  I  cannot  pro 
ceed  a  single  step. 

Never  mind,  I  must,  you  tell  me,  advance,  and  you  lead 
me  to  judgment. 

To  judgment ! — for  what  cause,  and  who  is  he  that  is 
judged  1  I  hear  it  said — Thou  hast  committed  suet  an 
action,  neglected  such  a  duty  ;  thou  hast  believed  my  word, 
denied  it ;  thou  hast  loved  Jesus ;  thou  hast  rejected  Him. 
Truly  all  these  charges  alike  are  enigmas  to  me ;  I  seek 
and  cannot  find  any  answer  to  them. 

But  this  is  not  by  any  means  all.  According  to  these 
very  charges,  I  am  placed  on  the  right  hand  with  the 
blessed,  on  the  left  hand  with  the  condemned. 

Olu  my  whole  nature  rebels  against  such  a  proceeding ! 


PERSONAL  IDENTITY.  257 

It  is  written  that  God  shall  be  found  just.  But  as  for  me, 
I  declare  Him  unjust,  for  I  can  remember  nothing. 

Do  not  talk  to  me  any  more  of  justice  but  of  arbitrary 
power  !  Memory  once  destroyed,  the  solemn  scene  of  the 
last  judgment  is  reduced  to  certain  blows  or  certain  favours, 
falling  here  and  there  like  a  hail-shower  on  a  stormy  day ; 
sparing  these,  crushing  those,  according  as  they  are  impelled 
by  a  mysterious  will  to  which  I  have  no  clue. 

You  wished  to  preserve  personal  identity,  and  you  take 
away  memory — both  fall  together.  I  am  only  consciously 
myself  so  long  as  I  remember.  Annihilate  the  last  vestiges 
of  memory,  and  you  annihilate  the  last  remnant  of  identity 
as  welL 

And,  if  you  dispute  the  fact,  I  point  you  to  the  old  man 
in  his  second  childhood.  So  long  as  a  little  memory  is 
left  him,  he  remains  himself ;  when  all  remembrance  of 
the  past  is  darkened,  absolutely  darkened,  he  loses  his 
identity,  loses  it  to  such  a  degree  as  to  believe  himself 
some  one  else.  His  poor  mind  is  like  an  empty  house, 
passers-by  go  in  and  out,  the  true  master  has  disappeared. 

Men  have  thought  to  make  God's  work  easier,  by  con 
juring  memory  away.  They  have  only  destroyed  a  prime 
element  of  order. 

The  world  to  come  peopled  by  a  race  without  a  past ;  a 
future  existence  entirely  built  upon  an  anterior  existence, 
with  its  very  conditions  only  consequences  of  the  acts, 
thoughts,  and  sentiments  of  that  said  anterior  existence, 
and  yet  all  memory  of  it  done  away, — why,  I  say  it  is  a 
mere  chaos  !  Cut  the  ropes  which  hold  a  balloon  fast  to 
the  ground,  send  it  rolling  through  space,  without  ballast 
or  compass,  and  you  have  an  image  of  your  world  to  come  : 
more  fitting  home  for  the  insane  than  the  redeemed. 

Again,  what  a  singular  hypothesis  ;  how  little  worthy  of 


258  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

God  this  which  degrades  man  by  way  of  elevating  him. 
Here  below,  he  had  a  complete  individuality,  possessing 
the  past  by  memory ;  the  future  by  hope  ;  he  exchanges 
time  for  eternity,  and  straightway  his  mind  grows  narrower, 
his  sight  shorter  ;  the  perspective  of  the  past  closes  behind 
him.  Truly,  he  was  richer  on  earth,  he  was  greater,  he 
was  at  least  conversant  with  his  own  life,  and  could  measure 
the  amplitude  of  ages  past. 

If  you  would  mutilate  our  moral  being  to  make  God's 
work  of  judgment  easier,  know  that  God  refuses  such 
facilities ;  that  He  will  have  to  do  with  man  in  his  entirety. 
It  is  with  his  personal  identity  and  his  memory  that  man 
will  have  to  appear  before  God.  In  the  heavenly  country, 
a  man  will  assuredly  encounter  men  whom  he  has  known ; 
known  by  hearsay,  known  by  sight,  and  nations  of  men, 
whose  history  he  has  read. 

Remember  I  says  the  Scripture. 

"Remember  that  thou,  in  thy  lifetime,  hast  had  th} 
good  things." 

"  I  was  an  hungered,  and  ye  gave  me  meat ;  naked,  and 
ye  clothed  me  ;  in  prison,  and  ye  visited  me."  And  when 
the  redeemed  of  the  Lord  cry  out,  in  amazement,  "  When 
did  we  any  of  these  things  to  thee  ?"  Jesus  clears  up  the 
difficulty  by  an  appeal  to  their  past  recollection,  "Inas 
much  as  ye  did  it  to  one  of  the  least  of  these,  my  brethren, 
ye  did  it  unto  me/' 

They  understand  Him. 

It  is  from  our  past  that  the  witnesses  for  or  against  us 
are  cited. 

The  rust  of  our  silver  and  gold  testifies  against  us  ;  our 
alms,  fruits  of  our  faith,  plead  on  our  behalf.  There  is  a 
most  absolute  solidarity  between  the  time  that  was  and 
tho  time  that  shall  be. 


PERSONAL  IDENTITY.  259 

Thou  hast  confessed  me  before  men  :  I  will  confess  thee 
before  God.  Onesiphorus,  thou  hadst  compassion  on  my 
Apostle  Paul,  when  he  was  chained  in  a  Eoman  dungeon  : 
at  the  last  day  thou  shalt  find  mercy  at  the  hand  of  thy 
God.  Martyrs,  ye  died  with  me  :  ye  shall  also  reign.  As 
for  you  who  said  Lord,  Lord,  and  who  would  bring  forward 
the  evidence  of  your  pious  talk,  your  fine-seeming  actions, 
nay,  your  miracles  wrought  in  my  name,  remember  more 
accurately :  Words,  outward  conduct,  these,  indeed,  you 
gave  me,  but  not  your  heart.  Depart  from  me,  all  ye 
workers  cf  iniquity ! 

We  know  the  name  of  those  who  played  a  part  in  me 
morable  events ;  we  know  their  history,  can  recognise  their 
character. 

Men  in  presence  of  other  men,  town  against  town — Jonali 
with  the  inhabitants  of  Nineveh,  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  Moses, 
— all  have  a  clearly-defined  and  unalterable  individuality. 
Even  when  cities  are  treated  of,  it  is  Sodom  or  Gomorrah, 
Tyre  or  Sidon,  with  their  respective  annals,  their  imper 
sonal  but  specified  character  and  conduct ;  actual  cities,  in 
short,  not  abstractions. 

Thus  memory  and  identity  have  a  permanent  existence, 
are  the  immutable  basis  of  the  future  life. 

The  doctrine  of  the  soul's  sleep  benumbed  our  conscience ; 
the  annihilation  of  our  identity  destroys  it  utterly.  From 
the  moment  that  I  no  more  believe  myself  responsible  for 
actions,  I  take  no  further -thought  about  them.  Such  or 
such  a  wicked  act  may  indeed  appear  to  me  in  an  ugly  light 
— I  grant  you  that ;  but,  nevertheless,  I  contemplate  it  from 
a  stand-point  external  to  myself.  I  blame  it  in  my  own 
conduct,  just  as  I  might  blame  it  in  the  vilest  of  men, 
neither  more  nor  less.  It  doos  not  interest  me ;  I  might 
almost  say  it  is  r. n  affair  of  mine ;  and  were  it  not  for  the 


2GO  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

reprobation  of  society,  which  I  shrink  from  braving,— Ilia 
fear  of  incurring  the  penalty  of  the  law,  I  should  give  the 
reins  to  my  every  passion. 

You  speak  to  me  of  development,  perfectiveness.  I  pro 
test  to  you  that  I  am  indifferent  to  them.  Let  me  grov? 
ever  so  perfect  here  below,  it  will  be  labour  lost  when  I 
find  myself  on  high.  It  is  a  mere  stranger,  for  whom  I 
care  very  little,  that  is  to  get  there.  As  for  taking  any 
particular  trouble  for  him,  incurring  sacrifices,  acting  or 
not  acting,  the  thing  is  absurd.  There  is  only  one  indi 
vidual  in  whom  I  really  take  much  interest :  the  one  who 
on  this  our  planet  is  called  me,  me  myself.  I  will  procure 
for  him  as  long  as  I  can,  all  the  pleasure  and  satisfaction 
possible  here ;  after — why,  hereafter  is  the  affair  of  that 
other  being  with  whom  I  have  no  connexion. 

The  same  order  of  minds,  who  used  to  deny  first  per 
sonal  identity,  then  memory,  in  their  constant  desire  to 
simplify  all  problems,  have  now  come  to  allow  man  to  con 
tinue  himself  indeed,  but  still  they  must  needs  mutilate 
him ;  to  leave  him  complete  would  be  too  great  a  compli 
cation  ;  there  would  be  no  end  to  difficulties.  Therefore 
they  decree  that  lie  shall  indeed  remember,  but  only  in 
part  j  shall  retain  the  memory  of  events,  but  not  of  per 
sons.  In  heaven,  say  they,  we  shall  recognise  ourselves, 
not  others.  Here  is  a  fine  invention,  indeed,  for  simplify 
ing  matters ! 

I  have  a  name  of  my  own,  jt  matters  not  what.  On 
earth,  I  had  a  mother,  a  husband,  children  ;  I  was  sur 
rounded  by  friends ;  I  lived  in  town  or  country,  and  near 
me  lived  other  human  beings,  rich  or  poor,  happy  or  un 
happy.  Towards  each  of  these,  father,  child,  neighbour,  I 
had  certain  duties  to  perform.  My  very  life,  indeed,  was 


PERSONAL  IDENTITY.  261 

so  intimately  interwoven  with  theirs,  we  breathed  so  com 
pletely  one  common  air,  that,  in  a  moral  sense,  I  could  not 
move,  nor  they  either,  without  their  existence  and  mine 
being  modified.  The  elements  out  of  which  our  past  was 
made  were  just  our  mutual  relations,  our  reciprocal  con 
duct,  our  feelings  for  each  other.  My  soul  bears  the  im 
press  of  their  actions ;  their  soul  has  undergone  the  influ 
ence  of  my  character.  My  life  which  is  about  to  be 
judged,  is  part  and  parcel  of  their  lives ;  that  which  stands 
written  in  the  books  about  to  be  opened,  is  written  in  the 
mingled  blood  that  flows  from  their  veins  and  mine. 

Now,  it  is  just  all  this  that  you  want  to  do  away  with. 
The  world  is  to  be  suppressed  with  the  exception  of  my 
solitary  self. 

I  find  myself  before  the  throne  of  God ;  myself,  it  is 
true,  but  standing  all  alone  there.  Family,  friends,  neigh 
bours, — a  breath  has  blown  them  all  away.  I  see  myriads 
at  my  right  hand  and  at  my  left,  strangers  all, — mere 
ciphers,  such  as  we  spoke  of.  I  alone ;  I  known  only  to 
myself  and  to  God,  I  stand  upright  amidst  the  ruins  of 
the  world. 

Absurd,  immoral,  as  was  the  doctrine  of  a  lost  identity, 
a  lost  memory ! 

In  point  of  fact,  it  is  only  the  old  empirical  practice 
under  another  name  ;  only  the  scalpel  and  the  cauterising 
iron. 

Let  us  amputate,  burn,  annihilate  j  nullity  is  more  easily 
managed  than  life. 

'Do  you  think  so?  I  do  not.  Heaven  thus  peopled 
with  creatures  half-living,  half-dead,  with  one  half  tlaeir 
consciousness  paralysed,  one  half  their  affections  frozen, 
looks  to  me  but  like  a  vast  hospital  and  abode  of  suffering 


262  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

Or  if  there  be  not  suffering,  it  is  owing  to  the  cautery. 
To  mutilate,  is  not  to  heal  I  see  mutilated  being*.  I  do 
not  see  men  there. 

Is  that  indeed  a  state  of  glory  1  Is  that  the  perfection 
promised  to  the  children  of  God  ? 

Let  us  breathe  the  pure  air  of  the  Bible. 
A  slave,  Onesimus,  has  run  away.  Paul  teaches  him  the 
way  of  salvation,  then  sends  him  back  to  his  master.  "  For 
perhaps  he  therefore  departed  from  thee  for  a  season,  that 
thou  shouldest  receive  him  for  ever."  A  strong  expression 
this— receive  him  for  ever.  But  if  Philemon  is  not  to  know 
Onesimus  again,  what  meaning  can  it  have  ] 

"  Ye  shall  see  Abraham,  and  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  sit  down 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  If  you  see  them  without  re 
cognising  them,  what  does  seeing  them  signify  to  you  1 

A  crown  of  rejoicing  is  prepared  for  the  Apostle  of  the 
Gentiles  ;  his  converts  are  that  crown.  But  if  he  does  not 
know  them  again,  what  becomes  of  his  triumph  1 
to  yourselves  friends  of  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness, 
that  when  ye  fail  they  may  receive  you  into  everlasting 
habitations."  Friends,  the  very  same  whose  trembling 
hands  your  hands  have  pressed;  whose  tears  you  have 
dried  here  below.  If  they  are  merely  x,  y,  or  z,  why  they 
can  no  longer  be  friends,  and  Scripture  testimony  is  over 
thrown. 

On  the  morning  of  the  Resurrection,  many  saints  left 
their  graves,  and  showed  thunselves  to  many.  Do  away 
with  the  recognition  of  individuals,  and  you  destroy  all 
proof  of  the  miracle. 

Upon  the  holy  mountain  there  appeared  two  men  in 
glory,  one  on  each  side  of  the  transfigured  Saviour.  Who 
has  announced  their  names  to  Peter  1  No  one ;  nor  had 
Peter  ever  seen  them,  yet  he  knows  them.  "  Master,  it  i? 


PERSONAL  IDENTITY.  263 

good  for  us  to  be  here  ;  let  us  make  three  tabernacles,  one 
for  thee,  one  for  Moses,  one  for  Elias" 

I  will  not  remind  you  of  Samuel  recognised  by  Saul ; 
nor  of  Elijah,  who,  as  he  rises  high  in  air,  does  not  become 
unfamiliar  and*  unknown  to  Elisha.  "  My  father,  my 
father  \"  Thus  he  continues  to  cry,  till  Elijah  has  vanished 
out  of  sight.  I  should  have  to  quote  the  whole  Bible. 

The  first  shall  be  last !  Why,  according  to  your  theory, 
I  know  neither  the  one  nor  the  other — know  not  what  this 
means. 

The  patriarchs,  the  prophets — are  they  indeed  monu 
ments  of  the  faithfulness  of  God  ?  I  cannot  tell,  and  I 
might  pass  a  thousand  years  in  the  presence  of  these  sub 
lime  forms  without  being  any  wiser. 

Those  Colossians,  those  Philippians,  those  converts  of  St 
Paul !  who  are  they,  and  who  is  Paul  1  I  never  heard  of 
him ;  let  us  pass  on. 

"  They  who  pierced  shall  see  him,"  I  hear  it  said  of  the 
Jews  and  the  Lord  Jesus.  Were  there  Jews  ?  Was  there 
indeed  a  man  called  Jesus?  How  can  you  suppose  the 
Jews  will  know  Him  again  if  there  be  no  mutual  recogni 
tion  hereafter? 

I  thank  Thee,  my  God,  the  river  of  Lethe  may  indeed 
flow  through  the  Elysian  fields,  it  does  not  water  the 
Christian's  Paradise. 

Before  the  sun  has  climbed  above  the  horizon,  all 
objects  on  earth  are  blended  in  one  common,  indistinct, 
grey  hue ;  you  can  just  discern  their  difference  of  form. 
The  sun  rises,  colours  appear,  outlines  define  themselves, 
variety  and  tune  are  born  at  once.  Before,  there  was  only 
a  dull  monotony  •  now,  there  is  harmony. 

The  life  to  come  has  a  similar  marvel  in  reserve.     At 


2G4  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

the  first  ray  of  its  light,  our  true  characters,  purified  but 
preserving  their  identity,  will  more  fully  expand,  and  the 
result  of  the  infinite  diversity  will  be  a  complete  unity. 

Have  no  fear.  God  will  open  out  a  way  we  cannot 
foresee.  His  wisdom,  His  will,  will  have  as  free  scope 
amidst  multitudes  of  separate  personalities,  as  amidst  be 
wildered  myriads  of  beings  without  identity  or  memory,  to 
whom  everything  is  new,  everything  unaccountable,  and 
who  are  appalled  at  the  unknown  region  into  which  they 
have  been  plunged. 

It  is  I  myself.  So  said  the  risen  Saviour  to  His  dis 
ciples.  /  myself. 

Those  with  whom  I  have  lived,  with  whom  I  have 
suffered;  you,  my  children,  for  whom  I  have  so  often 
prayed ;  my  friends,  whose  faces  are  so  familiar  to  me,  you 
too,  whom  having  not  seen  I  still  have  loved.  It  is  you 


Blessed  be  the  Lord  for  this  expression  of  His  ! 

We  were  being  very  gradually  and  gently  brought  to  the 
verge  of  final  annihilation;  God  has  stretched  out  His 
saving  hand.  Once  for  all,  and  for  ever,  we  have  escaped 
from  it 


THE  ETERNITY  OP  LOYE. 

f  AVE  we  indeed  escaped  ? 
Alas  !  no. 

3B4I  The  power  of  God  rescues  our  personality  from 
the  tomb :  so  much  has  been  granted ;  but  it  leaves  our 
affections  there.  Individual  love  is  to  be  absorbed  in 
universal.  It  is  this  latter  love  alone  of  which  it  is  written, 
"  It  never  faileth." 

If  this  be  so,  then  we  have  returned  to  the  belief  in 
annihilation ;  for  to  lose  ourselves  is  virtually  to  perish. 

I  apply  the  term,  destroying  agent,  to  the  flood  that 
covers  the  whole  country,  and  replaces  its  varied  undu 
lations  by  an  immense  sheet  of  water,  which  only  reflects 
the  sun. 

Death  shall  be  destroyed.  This  wondrous  sentence 
closes  the  prophecies  relating  to  our  earth.  But  if  you 
kill  my  affections,  death  triumphs ;  for  death  has  swallowed 
up  the  noblest  portion  of  our  being. 

If  in  this  life  only  we  love,  (I  extend  the  application  of 
St  Paul's  words,)  we  are  indeed  most  miserable. 

"What !  I  shall  have  given  myself  away  ;  I  shall  have  re 
ceived  that  ineffable  gift,  a  heart ;  our  thoughts  shall  have 
become  so  intimately  united  as  simultaneously  to  rise 
within  us,  by  those  secret  affinities  which  we  cannot  ex 
plain.  I  shall  live  in  him,  in  her ;  love  shall  have  wrought 
the  miracle  of  taking  away  all  my  selfishness ;  a  smile  on 
those  lips  shall  irradiate  my  heart ;  a  cloud  of  sadness  on 


266  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

that  brow  shall  have  power  to  cast  me  down ;  nay  mure, 
we  shall  have  bent  the  knee  together  ;  shall  have  ardently 
sought  after  God  ;  mutually  lived  that  noble  Christian  life 
with  its  agony  of  strife,  its  joy  of  victory  ;  and  when  death 
eomes,  we  shall  have  to  say,  All  is  over ! 

An  absorption  into  the  ocean  of  universal  love  will  be 
the  end  of  all.  The  first  soul  I  meet  will  be  as  dear  to  me 
or  as  indifferent  (it  is  all  one)  as  that  soul ;  any  other 
individuality  will  be  as  precious  to  me  as  that  beloved 
individuality  which  has  vanished  for  ever.  Oh,  my  heart 
protests  against  such  a  doctrine  as  this  !  I  say  now,  as  I 
said  before,  of  memory  and  identity, — If  I  cease  to  love 
them  whom  I  once  loved ;  if  I  cease  to  love  them  with  a 
definite,  positive,  special  love, — I  cease  to  be  myself ;  and, 
moreover,  while  in  this  world,  I  am  the  most  miserable  of 
creatures. 

I  am,  at  the  same  time,  the  most  degraded.  Take  away 
the  immortality  of  love ;  give  me  children,  a  father,  a  hus 
band  to  love,  under  this  condition,  that  it  is  only  for  time ; 
prove  to  me  that  the  coffin-lid  closes  upon  our  affections  as 
upon  our  bodies,  with  this  difference,  that  earth  will  restore 
me  my  body  and  not  my  affections, — I  declare  to  you  that 
I  shall  love  them  with  the  love  of  an  egotist,  a  materialist, 
nothing  more. 

Even  if  you  set  before  me  a  career  of  Christian  activity, 
souls  to  be  saved  after  this  manner,  with  a  sort  of  wholesale 
interest  in  which  the  individual  goes  for  nothing,  I  declare 
to  you  that  my  work  becomes  lowered  in  character,  and 
that  I  shall  get  through  it  mechanically;  the  intimate, 
personal  love  of  souls  will  come  to  little  more  than  the 
placing  one  stone  upon  another,  having  hewn  it  out,  as  well 
as  one  can,  with  the  least  possible  trouble. 

It  was  not  thus  that  St  Paul  felt  when  he  exclaimed, 


THE  ETERNITY  OF  LOVE.  267 

"Ye  are  my  joy  !"  (you  whom  I  have  known,  for  whom  I 
have  suffered ;)  "  ye  are  my  joy  in  that  day."  The  con 
verts  made  by  Peter,  by  James  ;  the  heathen  that  in  future 
ages  other  missionaries  will  win  over  to  the  faith, — -all 
these  I  shall  doubtless  love ;  but  my  crown,  the  delight  of 
my  eyes,  the  thrill  of  my  heart,  will  be  you  on  whose  face 
my  eyes  have  rested  ;  you  with  whom  I  have  prayed ;  you 
who  wept  at  the  thought  that  you  should  see  me  no  more  ; 
you  who  caused  me  sorrow  and  joy ;  you,  my  own  per 
sonal  friends ! 

Who  is  it  who  has  created  our  affections  ?  God  or  the 
devil?  Excuse  so  downright  a  question.  If  it  be  God 
who  gave  us  these  affections,  and  pronounced  His  own 
work  good,  will  He  one  day  suddenly  change  and  pro 
nounce  it  evil?  He  who  dowered  this  earth  with  such 
strong  and  sweet  attachments,  will  he  denude  heaven  of 
these  ?  It  would  have  been  easy  to  have  placed  us  from 
the  first  in  an  atmosphere  of  uniform  and  insipid  affection, 
felt  by  and  for  all  alike  ;  in  an  ocean  without  islands  and 
without  shore.  But  this  is  not  the  Divine  idea ;  it  is  the 
vain  imagination  of  man. 

Man  considers  that  there  is  grandeur,  God  that  there  is 
poverty,  in  monotony. 

Try,  for  a  moment,  to  picture  to  yourself  a  man  who  has 
no  preference.  Behold  him  loving  everybody  with  exactly 
the  same  sentiment,  Ms  father  neither  more  nor  less  than 
all  other  old  men,  an  unknown  child  quite  as  much  as  his 
own.  As  for  friends,  he  has  none ;  or  rather  you,  I,  any 
stranger,  the  Grand  Turk  if  you  will,  are  all  equally  his 
friends  in  degree  and  kind.  Why,  such  a  man  is  no  man  ; 
he  has,  I  can  see,  arms,  legs,  but  I  do  not  discover  a  heart 
in  him.  If  he  really  be  living  man,  and  not  an  automaton, 
I  say  that,  loving  every  one,  ho  virtually  loves  no  one,  that 


£68  THE  UFA  VKXL  r  HORIZONS. 

I  care  not  for  such  general  tenderness,  and  that  I  would 
rather  be  the  cat  of  such  a  one  than  his  wife  or  his  son. 

If  this  earth,  deprived  of  special  and  particular  affections, 
seems  to  crumble  away  beneath  our  feet ;  if  it  presents  us 
with  nothing  better  than  isolated  creatures,  wandering 
about,  each  in  Ms  own  dim  personality,  equally  attracting, 
equally  repelling  all  the  rest;  if  the  result  be  a  chaotic 
vortex,  cold,  indefinite,  sad,  and  unspeakably  tiresome,  what 
would  a  heaven  be  on  the  same  plan  1 

I  know,  indeed,  that  you  make  the  Deity  the  centre  of 
your  heaven ;  that  all  affections  are  to  converge  towards 
that  central  point  and  be  absorbed  there.  This  is  mere 
chemical  action ;  no  life,  no  soul  here — annihilation  again. 

And  yet  this  is  how  the  human  mind  sometimes  orders 
and  peoples  heaven. 

Oh,  how  differently  has  God  created  man  ! 

God  created  family  ties,  which  man  could  never  have 
invented ;  which,  in  his  savage  state,  he  often  does  away 
with  altogether ;  which,  in  the  excesses  of  a  corrupt  civi 
lisation,  he  too  much  ignores ;  which  the  greater  part  of 
our  false  philosophers  tend  to  dissolve.  God  has  strongly 
bound  us  together, — the  man  to  his  wife,  the  father  to  his 
child  ;  and  when  Paul  seeks  to  depict,  in  one  word,  the 
moral  degradation  of  the  Romans  in  his  day,  he  says — 
without  natural  affections. 

What  does  that  ark  that  floats  over  a  submerged  world, 
contain  ?  A  family  :  father,  mother,  sons,  and  daughters. 

Why  that  scarlet  thread  on  the  walls  of  Jericho  ?  It  is 
there  to  save  a  famil}T. 

What  said  the  avenging  angels  to  Lot,— Hast  thou  here 
any  beside — sons,  or  sons-in-law,  or  daughters  ?  bring  them 
out  of  this  place,  for  we  will  destroy  this  place. 

To  whom  did  the  Lord  send  his  apostle  Peter  :  to  the 


THE  ETERNITY  OF  LOVE.  2G9 

Csesarean  centurion  alone  ?  No  ;  to  his  family,  his  house 
hold  ;  the  whole  household  believes,  the  whole  family  is 
baptized. 

Nothing  is  done  by  constraint.  God  forces  no  one ;  yet 
it  is  the  will  of  God  that  man  should  not  land  alone  on  the 
eternal  shores.  What  appeals  He  addresses,  what  secret 
attractions  He  exercises ;  what  prayers  He  puts  into  the 
heart  of  mothers,  of  wives ;  these  we  shall  never  know  till 
the  day  of  the  revelation  of  all  things. 

Yes,  there  are  families  on  high,  united  with  indissoluble 
ties,  loving  each  other  with  a  firmer,  stronger  love  than 
earth  ever  knew.  No  egotism  diminishes ;  no  infidelity 
sullies ;  no  ambition  chokes  ;  no  love  of  gold  petrifies  it ; 
it  is  constantly  re-baptized  in  the  adoration  of  God,  and 
this  adoration,  far  from  extinguishing  it,  only  imparts  its 
own  eternal  glory. 

And  yet,  Jesus  has  told  us  that  in  heaven  there  is  neither 
marriage  nor  giving  in  marriage. 

No  doubt.  Under  new  conditions,  there  must  be  new 
relations.  Our  terrestrial  marriage  has  consequences  which 
are  incompatible  with  the  future  life.  That  which  is 
temporary  ceases ;  that  which  is  immortal  lasts.  True 
Christian  love  is  immortal. 

To  be  fully  convinced  of  this,  assume,  for  one  moment, 
the  contrary  hypothesis.  Picture  to  yourself  Abraham — 
that  marked,  that  impressive,  personality — without  Sarah, 
without  that  other  personality  so  closely  linked  with  his. 
Take  a  further  step,  imagine  Jacob  indifferent  to  Rachel. 
He  neets  her,  his  gentle  love,  the  companion  of  his  wander 
ings,  meets  her  in  *hat  Paradise.  No  more  loving  names, 
no  more  pathetic  memories,  no  more  tenderness.  He  meets 
her,  and  with  unkindled  eye,  unmoved  mind,  glides  by 
her.  Any  other  soul  taken  at  hap-hazard  would  inspire 


270  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

him  with  equal  interest.  For  the  mother  of  Joseph  and 
Benjamin  lie  feels  nothing  more  than  for  any  other  in 
habitant  of  heaven.  Alas  !  she  whom,  weeping,  he  buried 
by  the  way  of  Ephrath ;  she  has  remained  in  that  grave. 
Both  are  dead. 

The  beings  whom  in  the  heavenly  regions  you  still  call 
llachel  and  Jacob,  have  nothing  in  common  with  those 
hearts  which  burn  here  below  with  a  love  at  once  so 
human  and  so  divine.  I  know  them  no  longer.  Not  a 
single  feature  remains  of  those  characters  traced  by  the 
inspired  pen.  They  are  for  ever  lost  to  each  other,  lost 
to  us. 

For,  in  order  to  love  no  longer,  mark  it  well,  you  must 
no  longer  remember.  Love  is  no  less  intimately  connected 
with  memory,  than  memory  with  identity.  No  memory 
without  love,  no  identity  without  memory,  no  human 
being  without  identity.  Prevent  a  man  from  loving  on 
the  other  side  the  grave,  the  soul  that  he  loved  on  this  ; 
you  can  only  do  so  by  destroying  his  past,  and  in  destroying 
his  past,  you  destroy  the  individual. 

The  great  poet  of  the  middle  ages  better  understood  the 
dignity  of  the  human  soul,  when  he  maintained  intact  the 
immortality  of  love.  Even  in  hell  itself  he  jealously  main 
tained  it.  With  equal  flight,  driven  to  and  fro  by  the  same 
wild  wind,  sighing  out  one  same  sad  complaint,  pressed, 
shuddering,  one  against  the  other,  the  two  shades  once 
united  by  a  guilty  love,  remained  faithful  still.  And  shall 
not  chaste  affections  last  ?  while  unsanctificd  ties  thus  defy 
death,  shall  the  holy  ones,  into  which  God  himself  breathed 
immortal  life,  shall  these  be  destroyed  ? 

Have  it  your  own  way,  then,  methinks  I  hear  it  said. 
But  with  the  endurance  of  individual  affection,  you  intro 
duce  sorrow  into  heaven.  Will  all  those  you  love  have  in- 


THE  ETERNITY  OF  LOVE.  271 

deed  a  place  there  ]  Are  you  very  sure  to  meet  them  aD 
again  ?  A  father,  a  child 

I  fall  at  thy  feet,  my  God.  I  fall  there  with  a  cry 
which  is  an  act  of  faith.  Thou  wilt  save  them ;  Thou 
wilt  seek  there  out;  all  obduracy  will  melt  beneath  the 
ardour  of  Thy  Divine  love.  If  it  were  not  so  indeed  ! — 
my  God,  take  pity  on  me  !  I  know  that  Thou  lovest 
them ;  I  know  Thou  wilt  wipe  all  my  tears  away  j  I  be 
lieve  from  my  inmost  soul,  that  Thou  wilt  not  wipe  away 
my  tears  by  narrowing  my  heart !  Thou  consolest  by 
giving ;  Thou  wilt  take  away  nothing  that  is  good,  that 
Thou  thyself  hast  pronounced  very  good.  And  then  be 
hold  a  mystery  :  Thou  thyself,  0  God  !  from  out  thine 
immutable  felicity  dost  look  upon  the  lost.  Nevertheless 
Thy  love  and  pity  endure ;  Thou  hast  not  sacrificed  them 
to  Thy  blessedness.  These  are  muffled  harmonies,  but  I 
can  hear  their  distant  echo. 

What  Thine  omniscience  does  for  Thee,  Thy  compassion 
will  do  for  me  also. 

My  love  will  not  die.  Struck  at  throughout  my  whole 
journey ;  covered  with  wounds ;  bleeding  and  mutilated, 
it  is  not  thus  that  I  shall  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
The  God  from  whose  presence  despair  flies  away,  will  not 
banish  it  by  scattering  the  dust  of  my  memories  to  the 
winds.  Indifference  will  not  be  my  cure  for  grief.  My 
God  has  other  remedies  for  the  suffering  that  springs  from 
love. 

My  tenderness  will  survive,  Lord,  like  Thy  tenderness. 
Thy  love,  Thy  heart,  my  risen  Saviour,  guarantees  me  the 
vitality  of  my  own. 

There  is  one  other  objection  to  the  identity  of  our  affeo 
tions. 


272  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

"  Though  I  have  known  Christ  after  the  flesh,"  says  the 
Apostle  Paul,  "  I  know  him  so  no  more." 

And  the  inference  is  this — On  high  our  attachment  will 
be  so  modified  as  virtually  to  be  done  away  with. 

But  a  different  way  of  loving  is  not  by  any  means  3 
forgetting. 

Let  us  look  a  little  down  t-j  earth. 

Wlrile  I  lived  without  God  and  without  hope  in  the 
world,  I  loved.  How?  Idolatrously,  that  is  to  say, 
selfishly,  possessing,  possessed,  in  reality  seeking  only 
myself  in  my  love.  This  love  was  full  of  caprice ;  a  word 
could  change  it,  a  look  turn  it  to  torture  ;  tormented  itself, 
it  grew  cruel  in  its  turn.  Often,  without  visible  cause,  it 
would  diminish,  grow  cold,  almost  die  out;  or  else  the 
prosaic  influence  of  long  habit  would  threaten  to  smother  it. 
A  change  is  wrought  in  me  ;  my  soul  finds  a  Saviour,  I  am 
born  into  a  new  life,  and  the  mighty  hand  which  has  raised 
me,  has,  at  the  same  time,  raised  my  affections  also. 

Will  you  say,  then,  that  I  love  no  longer  ?  I  love  better 
than  ever.  I  love  with  a  solicitude  till  then  unknown ;  I 
love  with  inexpressible  delicacy  and  refinement ;  I  really 
and  truly  no  longer  love  myself,  but  love  another.  I 
chorish  His  soul ;  it  is  His  soul  that  I  crave ;  it  is  His 
soul  I  would  serve ;  I  must  have  it  immortal,  must  have 
it  happy.  Before,  I  loved  for  a  day;  now,  I  love  for 
eternity. 

This  is  what  God  makes  of  our  love  even  here  below. 
Will  He  do  the  contrary,  think  you,  in  heaven  ?  After 
having  built  up  iu  this  life,  will  He  overthrow  in  the 
next  ? 

To  sanctify,  is  not  to  destroy ;  to  annihilate  sin,  is  not 
'to  efface  human  affections. 

ITe  who  vanquishes  Satan,  immortalizes  all  true  love. 


THE  ETERNITY  OF  LOVE.  273 

Although  God  has  not  seen  fit  to  reveal  to  us  all  the 
mutual  relations  of  the  future  state,  yet  some  of  the  words 
that  He  has  inspired  are  radiant  with  glory. 

Does  He  see  us  prostrate  beside  some  tomb  ?  "  Sorrow 
not,"  He  says,  "like  those  who  have  no  hope.  I  will 
bring  them  back;  when  I  return  they  shall  be  with  me. 
At  that  solemn  hour  you  living  ones  shall  not  prevent  them 
that  are  asleep.  In  a  moment,  at  the  voice  of  the  arch 
angel,  your  beloved  ones  will  rise  again ;  you  will  come 
together  to  meet  me.  Comfort  ye  one  another  with  these 
svords  ;  do  not  be  comforted  like  those  who  have  no  hope." 

Have  you  listened  attentively  to  these  sweet  and  subtle 
words ;  have  you  gathered  this  promise  to  your  hearts ; 
fully  appreciated  its  considerate  tenderness  ? 

Oh,  be  sure  He  who  Himself  thus  loves,  will  never  break 
our  hearts !  Sadness  !  yes,  that  is  natural ;  but  let  our 
sadness  be  fraught  with  confidence ;  Jesus  will  bring  back 
our  lost  ones  with  Him. 

A  long  period  of  waiting  would  distress.  The  living 
shall  not  prevent  them  that  sleep. 

But  where?  How?  Be  not  afraid;  the  shout  of 
triumph  sounds  from  one  end  of  heaven  to  the  other,  and 
we  shall  be  all  assembled — all  together  with  Jesus. 

"Together!"  exclaims  St  Paul  "Risen  together;  to 
gether  seated  in  heavenly  places." 

See  David,  before  prostrate  in  the  agony  of  despairing 
prayer,  suddenly  arise,  wash  his  face,  anoint  his  head. 
What  doest  thou,  O  king  ?  Thy  son  is  dead ;  he  will  not 
return,  and  yet  thy  tears  are  stanched. 

"  He  will  not  return  to  me,  but  /  shall  go  to  him." 

But  I  desire  to  contemplate  my  Saviour  in  the  exercise 
of  His  most  Divine  prerogative;  at  the  moment  when, 
vrith  His  sovereign  hand,  He  loosed  the  bands  of  death. 

s 


274  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS 

His  preaching  demanded  the  support  of  miracles ',  but 
what  His  heart  demanded  was  that  He  should  -wipe  away 
our  tears. 

When  at  the  gates  of  the  city  of  Nain,  He  stops  the 
corpse  on  its  way  to  the  grave ;  was  it  to  display  His 
power  that  He  did  this  ?  The  procession  comes  on,  a  sor 
rowing  woman  accompanies  it — a  widow.  Jesus  sees  her, 
is  moved  with  compassion:  "Woman,  weep  not!"  HI.* 
hand  has  touched  the  bier :  "  Young  man,  arise  \"  And 
He  gave  him  to  his  mother. 

He  gave  in  like  manner  the  servant  to  the  Centurion, 
his  little  daughter  to  Jairus. 

"  Trouble  not  the  Master,"  said  the  servant ;  "  thy  child 
is  dead." 

And  others  thought,  perhaps,  What  is  dead  is  dead  ;  the 
flower  has  bloomed  and  faded  ;  thou  -wilt  see  her  no  more 
on  earth  or  in  heaven.  In  heaven,  a  mere  fraction  of  the 
great  whole,  a  unit  midst  myriads  of  similar  units,  thy 
daughter  will  be  thy  daughter  no  longer.  Therefore,  make 
up  thy  mind  to  it.  Forget ! 

Not  so  Jesus.  "Maiden,  arise!"  and  He  gave  her  to 
her  father. 

Let  me  seat  myself  awhile  beside  Mary,  while  Martha, 
who  has  just  run  in,  is  saying  to  her,  "  The  Master  is  come, 
and  calleth  for  thee." 

"  My  brother  is  dead.  By  this  time  the  prey  of  corrup 
tion."  Such  are  the  terrors  under  which  our  faith  falters. 

Then  Jesus  breaks  in — "  Said  I  not  unto  thee,  that,  if 
Hum  wonkiest  believe,  thou  shouldest  see  the  glory  of  God  '('' 

And  Jesus  was  troubled  in  Himself,  and  Jesus  wept. 

"  See  how  He  loved  him  !"  cried  the  Jews.  They  are 
not  deceived,  those  eye-witnesses.  Where  over-strained, 
t-u[vermie  intellects  can  only  see  a  vague  huinanitarinnisiu 


THE  ETK1LVITY  OF  LOVE.  275 

the  Jews  recognise  the  presence  of  a  strong  affection.  How 
He  loved  him  !  And  He  who  loved  Lazarus  said,  "  Take 
ye  away  the  stone ;"  then  cried,  "Lazarus,  come  forth  !" 

It  is  no  person  hitherto  unknown  who  comes  forth  at 
this  call.  Jesus  has  not  evoked  a  new  and  different  being, 
a  stranger,  indifferent  to  those  around.  No.  It  is  Lazarus 
who  arises ;  the  Lazarus  whom  Martha  and  Mary  love, 
whom  Jesus  loves,  and  He  gave  him  to  his  sisters. 

I  told  you  before  that  it  was  the  very  joy  of  this  that 
hindered  our  faith.  The  apostles  gathered  together  on  the 
morning  of  the  resurrection,  were  like  us,  they  believed  not 
for  joy. 

We  have  been  wont  to  descend  into  the  depths  of  sorrow, 
but  hitherto  we  have  never  been  equally  flooded  by  bliss. 
Eternity  reserves  this  experience  for  us. 

Do  our  beloved  dead  see  us  still,  take  part  in  our 
struggles,  lend  us  help  ?  This  is  a  mystery. 

The  things  that  are  revealed  alone  belong  to  us.  I  find 
them  sufficiently  beautiful  to  satisfy  me. 

By  faith,  women  received  their  dead  again  !  I  thank 
Thee,  O  my  God. 

Fear  not,  only  believe.  I  will  believe,  Thou  wilt  not  de 
ceive  me. 

"A  general  assembly,"  "caught  up  together  ivith  them? 
"together  with  the  Lord."  I  will  constantly  repeat  to  my 
self  these  words,  all  vibrating  with  hope. 

My  heart  salutes  you,  ye  eternal  shores  !  Amidst  your 
radiance  I  recognise  my  beloved  ones.  The  dying  eye  of 
a  father  was  fixed  upon  them ;  they  were  their  greetings 
that  reached  his  ear,  and  that  Divine  smile  that  rested  on 
his  lips,  that  last  sublime  light,  was  kindled  by  their  glance, 
their  love,  as  well  as  by  the  Saviour's  ineffable  love.  At 
that  last  moment  those  he  had  loved  were  still  his  own. 


THE  BESTTBBECTION  OF  THE  BODY. 

|HERE  are  some  who  make  light  of  the  body.     I 
am  not  one  of  them. 

It  is  an  easy  resignation,  indeed,  when  it 
concerns  ourselves  ;  a  bitter  grief  when  some  beloved  being 
is  in  question. 

There  it  lies,  that  poor  body ;  there  is  that  face  that  I 
have  looked  at  so  much,  the  eyes  which  rested  gently  upon 
me,  the  mouth  that  spoke  to  me  as  no  other  will  ever 
speak  more  ;  there  is  the  whole  aspect — I  knew  not  whether 
it  were  beautiful  or  not — which  was  my  sun,  which  was 
my  life. 

If  my  lips  touch  that  brow  ever  so  lightly,  they  meet  a 
marble  coldness  there.  Have  you  ever  felt  it  sink  down 
from  the  lips  to  the  heart,  that  piercing,  unnatural  chill, 
unlike  any  other,  that  chill  upon  the  forehead  of  the  dead  2 

That  body  so  sacredly  cherished ;  that  poor  body,  here 
tofore  the  object  of  such  tender  care ; — they  take  it  from 
me  now  !  Strangers  come,  who  bear  it  away,  dig  a  grave, 
and  lay  it  there ;  the  earth  is  heaped  up  over  it.  The 
dust,  the  rain,  the  winter  winds  will  all  sweep  over  that 
grave  ;  and  while  I  am  sitting,  sheltered,  beside  our  hearth, 
while  I  am  warming  myself — he — he  is  lying  low  out  there, 
alone,  forsaken. 

Oh,  this  cry  that  eloquent  lips  have  uttered ! — every 
funeral  procession  has  extorted  it  from  some  henrt  in  its 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  THE  BODY.     277 

distress.  It  is  not  the  cry  of  madness,  it  is  the  protest  of 
nature  and  of  reason. 

We  were  not  made  for  this ;  God  had  not  created  us  for 
this  ;  the  image  of  God  was  not  destined  to  moulder  into 
dust.  We  may  be  submissive,  may  check  the  rebellious 
words  that  rise  to  our  lips,  but  our  thoughts  will  follow 
those  remains,  will  glide  into  that  tomb,  will  open  that 
coffin,  and  return  with  tidings  which  will  tear  our  very 
vitals. 

During  that  last  illness,  while  I  possessed  it  still,  one  of 
my  deepest  sorrows  was  to  see  that  poor  frame  decline. 
When  my  anxious  looks  encountered  those  altered  features ; 
when  one  of  those  ominous  changes  that  one  will  not  allow 
to  one's  self,  suddenly  burst  upon  me,  I  felt  my  heart  sink. 
At  such  times,  my  face  buried  in  my  hands,  my  knees 
giving  way  under  me,  I  fell  down  somewhere  out  of  sight, 
more  truly  dying  than  that  loved  one  in  his  very  death- 
agony. 

The  destruction  of  the  body  !  There  lies  the  curse,  the 
anguish  of  one  who  watches  by  a  deathbed. 

And  now  that  years  have  worn  away,  with  their  good 
clays  and  their  bad,  do  you  know  what  it  is  that  suddenly 
lights  up  the  widow's  faded  face]  do  you  know  why  she 
sheds  these  happy  tears  1  She  has  seen  again — yes,  like  a 
lightning  flash,  some  smile,  some  trick  of  feature,  has  ap 
peared  before  her ;  some  gesture,  some  intonation,  a  stray 
note  dying  away  as  suddenly  as  it  rose.  With  passionate 
energy  she  clasps  one  of  her  sons  in  her  arms ;  he  has 
looked  at  her  in  the  way  his  father  used  to  look ;  he  has 
said,  as  he  used  to  say,  "  I  am  cold ;"  he  has  shivered  as 
he  used  to  shiver.  Or  else  it  is  some  dream,  a  ray  of  light 
from  Paradise  which  has  visited  her  in  the  darkness  of  her 
night.  Yes.  it  was  his  very  self  ;  they  were  both  walking 


278  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

along  aome  familiar  walk  in  their  little  garden.  There  was 
nothing  extraordinary  about  it,  no  transports.  In  fact,  it 
was  as  if  they  had  never  been  separated  at  all.  They 
chatted  about  one  thing  and  the  other,  with  a  smile,  a  jest, 
as  they  might  yesterday,  as  they  might  to-inorrow.  And 
when  the  widow  wakes  ;  her  lips  do  not  part  with  a  groan 
of  desolation  ;  no,  she  has  re-possessed  herself  of  her  loved 
one's  image ;  she  will  meet  his  own  self  again  ere  long  : 
she  has  gained  strength  to  go  on  her  solitary  way. 

You  call  us  Materialists.  *  The  flesh  ! '  you  disdainfully 
murmur.  These  remains  that  our  heart  so  follows,  you 
return  them  to  their  dust  without  a  regret ;  no  place  for 
them  in  your  heaven  tenanted  only  with  wandering  and 
impalpable  shadows. 

If  we  have  God  on  our  side,  we  are  disowned,  we  are 
well  aware,  by  a  lofty  philosophy.  This  divides  man  into 
two  parts  :  the  one  full  of  sin  and  misery  rose  from  the 
earth  and  gravitates  thither;  the  other,  immaculate  and 
heaven-descended,  returns  of  necessity  to  heaven.  The 
two  have  nothing  in  common.  Their  very  essence  decides 
their  destination.  There  is  no  longer  need  of  a  God  to 
raise  us,  of  a  Christ  to  redeem  ;  the  fire  takes  what  belongs 
to  it,  dust  to  dust,  the  soul  to  glory. 

This  is  the  reasoning  of  many  a  philosophic  system 
many  a  heathen  religion. 

God  speaks  a  different  language.  He  who  condemns 
also  absolves.  He  who  pronounced  that  fearful  sentence 
on  our  body,  has  redeemed  that  body.  Men  give  it  up  to 
corruption,  God  raises  it  in  glory. 

Whit  is  it  that  Jesus  taught  ?  The  resurrection  of  the 
body.  The  Sadducees  ridicule  the  idea,  and  put  a  hypo 
thetical  case  to  Him,  in  hopes  of  demonstrating  its  absurdity. 

What  is  it  that  the  apostles  announce  ?     The  resurree 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  THE  BODY.     279 

tion  of  the  body.  An  immortal  soul  is  still  granted  to  us  ; 
it  is  considered  admissible  and  generally  received.  And 
yet  it  is  but  a  sad  sort  of  immortality ;  now  mere  nothing 
ness,  now  a  headlong  rush  through  a  succession  of  varied 
existences;  but  at  least  it  implies  a  soul,  an  immortal 
existence,  we  are  told  to  be  contented  with  that,. 

"  \VLat ! "  say  our  opponents,  "  does  not  that  satisfy  ? 
Will  nothing  do  for  you  but  the  resurrection  of  the  flesh, 
the  eternity  of  matter  ?  Down  with  such  madmen  ;  lock 
up  these  publicans  and  sinners ;  these  men  of  nought,  in 
love  with  such  low  and  vulgar  notions  !"  The  Jews  threw 
such  dreamers  into  prison  ;  the  Athenians  of  the  Areopagus, 
with  their  polite,  refined  culture,  merely  shrug  their 
shoulders.  Festus,  in  presence  of  Agrippa,  cannot  contain 
his  contempt ; — "  Paul,  thou  art  beside  thyself ;  much 
learning  doth  make  thee  mad." 

Such  a  deliverance  as  this  could  not  spring  spontane 
ously  from  the  heart  of  man.  Man  could  harden  his  heart, 
but  he  could  not  grasp  so  great,  so  simple  an  idea  as  this  ; 
entirely  lost,  entirely  saved.  Man  will  not  stoop  to 
identify  himself  with  the  instrument  of  his  sins;  man  will 
not  accept  a  solidarity  which  proves  to  him  his  fall ;  pre 
fers  rather  to  annihilate  the  creation  of  God.  To  leave 
one's  own  body  a  prey  to  worms ;  to  give  up  to  them  for 
ever  the  body  of  relatives  and  friends  !  Yes ;  tell  him  of 
that.  He  is  strong-minded  ;  he  will  not  wince. 

But  to  resume  a  body,  his  own  body,  in  eternity  ! 
Pshaw  !  It  is  a  low,  vulgar  idea  ;  it  revolts  him. 

Nevertheless,  what  man  could  not  even  imagine  has 
been  done  by  God.  God,  who  saw  us  completely  degraded, 
has  completely  restored;  restored  the  whole  man,  bocty 
and  soul  alike.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  Lord  Jesus 
rose. 


*80  THE  HE  A  VENLY  HORIZONS. 

Such,  too,  is  the  expectation  of  the  saints.  Paul  sighs, 
waiting  for  deliverance  ;  to  wit,  the  redemption  of  thi  body. 
He  strives  to  attain  to  the  resurrection  of  the  dead.  His 
full  conviction  is,  that  the  same  Spirit  which  raised  Christ 
will  also  quicken  our  mortal  bodies.  And  it  is  this  very 
Paul,  whom  certainly  no  one  could  accuse  of  self-indulgence, 
or  idolatrous  tenderness  for  his  own  person,  who  proclaims 
a  new  and  startling  truth,  which  many  would  be  disposed 
to  treat  as  blasphemous  :  "The  Lord  is  for  the  body  /" 

"Would  you  know  the  secret  of  this  problem  ?  It  is  con 
tained  in  one  word — Holiness. 

While  in  the  eyes  of  many  the  body  is  a  mere  vessel  of 
dishonour,  St  Paul  views  it  as  the  temple  of  the  Holy 
Spirit. 

"  Mistake  of  nature,"  say  the  wise  of  this  world.  "  Per 
fect  work  of  God,"  reply  the  Scriptures. 

The  body  has  sinned,  has  been  punished  accordingly. 
Punished  !  Yes,  but  not  cursed. 

In  point  of  fact,  were  we  disposed  to  argue,  we  might 
ask  which  is  the  true  culprit,  the  soul  or  the  body  ?  Where 
is  it  that  the  sinful  idea  arises  ?  Would  the  soulless  body 
be  guilty  of  any  excesses  ?  Ask  that  corpse  stretched  out 
yonder ! 

But  take  the  bodiless  soul,  on  the  contrary,  or  the  soul 
in  a  body  rendered  completely  inert,  would  it  be  of  neces 
sity  immaculate?  Would  it  be  free  from  all  pride,  all 
hate,  all  falsehood,  all  covetousness  ;  because  independent 
of  its  fleshy  tabernacle,  would  it,  as  a  consequence,  return 
to  the  innocence  of  Eden  1 

The  foUy  of  such  a  supposition  becomes  at  once  ap 
parent. 

You  call  those  Materialists  who  honour  the  body  1 
hold  those  who  despise  it  to  be  far  more  deserving  of  the 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  THE  BODY.     281 

name.     Ceasing  to  view  it  as  a  temple,  tliey.  use  it  as  a 
tavern. 

We  whom  they  call  carnal  respect  it.     Those  members 
for  which  Jesus  died,  which  will  live  again  with  Him,  wiT 
i-.gain  serve  God  on  earth,  must  be  kept  pure  from  tainl 
You  so-called  spiritualists  leave  such  humble  anxieties  at 
these  to  others  :  a  dwelling  so  soon  to  be  utterly  destroyed 
does  not,  in  your  opinion,  deserve  so  much  care  ;  the  lowest 
reptiles  are  welcome  to  it ;  each  passer-by  may  insult  it,— 
never  mind ;  nothing  will  remain  of  it  in  any  case. 

Oh,  the  coarseness  of  such  a  refinement  as  this !  Oh, 
how  noble,  how  supremely  holy,  the  simple  plan  of  my 
God! 

The  resurrection  of  the  body  strikes  you,  you  tell  me 
as  unseemly  !  I  feel* it  sublime.  It  not  only  makes  my 
heart  beat  with  joy,  but  perfectly  satisfies  my  moral  sense. 

The  annals  of  past  ages  shew  me  Christians  who  suffered 
in  their  body  for  the  sake  of  their  faith.  I  see  martyrs 
steeping  the  Roman  arenas  with  their  blood ;  I  see  the 
fearful  torches  that  lit  the  feasts  of  Nero ;  I  see  funeral 
piles,  and  on  them  human  forms  slowly  consuming ;  from 
out  the  torturing  flames  I  hear  hymns  of  joy  and  praise  to 
God ;  nay,  at  the  very  moment  I  am  writing,  the  veil  of 
obscure  circumstance  cannot  quite  hide  the  privations,  the 
watchings,  the  long  journeys,  the  hard  labour,  that  humble 
believers  cheerfully  undertake  for  the  love  of  God.  And 
shall  the  body  which  has  suffered,  sacrificed  itself  thus, 
have  no  portion  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ? 

Oh,  yes !  Its  sure  place  is  prepared  there ;  no  power 
can  reverse  the  decree. 

He  who  will  raise  the  whole  creation,  will  raise  the 
body. 

Insurrection !      Admirable   word.      Any   other   would 


282  TILE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

have  left  some  anxiety  tmdispelled ;  this  word  meets  mj 
most  secret  fears. 

Who  is  it  that  rises  ?     The  dead  man  they  laid  in  the 
tomb. 

However  dark,  however  suffering  my  night  may  have 
been,  each  morning  I  rise. 

That  morning  my  beloved  will  rise,  he  himself,  and  not 
another.  It  is  not  a  new  creation,  it  is  a  resurrection.  In 
the  place  of  the  beloved  departed,  whose  image  my  heart 
keeps  so  faithfully,  God  will  not  give  me  some  unknown 
being ;  no,  God  will  raise  up  the  one  I  love  ;  my  hope  will 
not  be  deceived.  Amidst  that  dust  and  ashes — oh,  omni 
potence  of  the  Divine  compassion  ! — a  germ,  visible  to  my 
God  alone,  encloses  the  vitality  I  believed  for  ever  extinct. 
As  a  grain  of  corn,  buried  deep  in  some  furrow,  rises  as  a 
green  fresh  blade  to  cheer  my  eyes  and  heart ;  so,  clothed 
upon  with  a  body,  glorious,  incorruptible,  like  to  that  of 
Jesus,  who  rose  long  before — so  will  the  body  of  my  loved 
one  rise. 

April  is  smiling  at  the  earth.  Come,  stoop  down. 
Close  to  the  old  wall,  do  you  see  a  broad  leaf  spread  itself 
out  like  a  canopy,  beneath  it  a  blue  vase  filled  full  of 
spring-tide  fragrance  ?  It  is  the  violet.  Take  hold  of  that 
branch,  and  break  it :  wood,  mere  dead  wood,  you  say. 
Look  closer,  it  reddens,  it  swells;  here  are  pink  petals, 
crests  of  balmy  stamens,  it  is  the  blossom  of  the  apple 
tree.  Take  that  other  branch,  dead  too,  like  the  other  : 
a  cluster  springs  from  it,  golden,  butterfly-winged— it  is 
the  laburnum.  This  other  is  burst  open  by  a  white  can 
delabrum,  with  scarlet  touches — it  is  the  horse-chestnut. 
Death  made  all  these  branches  much  alike.  Infinitely 
varied  in  life ;  each  with  its  own  special  scent  and  sheen, 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  THE  BODY,     283 

they  open  out  full  to  the  sunshine,  and  cast  their  sweetness 
on  the  merry  breeze. 

During  one  night,  one  shower,  the  brown  field  is  trans 
formed  into  a  meadow,  rifled  by  the  bee,  the  butterfly 
myriads  of  lately  tranced  and  crawling  things  have  changed 
into  the  winged  hosts  of  the  air. 

What  do  these  miracles  say  to  you  1  To  me  they  say 
that  a  God  of  love  will  raise  up  our  dead. 

"  But  how  1  with  what  semblance  V 

St  Paul  will  tell  you.  "  Sown  in  corruption,  raised  in 
incorruption ;  sown  in  dishonour,  raised  in  glory." 

It  was  fragile  and  abject  once ;  now  Jesus  clothes  it  with 
immortality  and  beauty. 

Beauty  !  But  those  who  were  ugly,  irredeemably  ugly. 
And  at  once  some  luckless  face  comes  and  grimaces  before 
our  mind's  eye. 

Yet,  when  we  come  to  think  earnestly  about  the  matter, 
is  there  indeed  such  a  thing  as  irredeemable  ugliness  1  Do 
features  only  make  the  face,  or  is  it  not  rather  the  soul 
that  shines  through  it  ? 

Take  for  example  any  misshapen  face  you  will  De 
prive  it  of  mind,  it  is  hideous,  you  turn  away  from  it  at 
once.  But  let  an  idea  shine  through  that  ugly  mask,  you 
look  at  it  without  repugnance.  Let  it  be  animated  by  a 
noble  sentiment,  the  flame  rises,  lights  it  up,  you  are  irre 
sistibly  attracted,  you  contemplate  it  with  pleasure.  Let 
love,  a  pure,  generous  love,  cast  its  radiance  over  that  face, 
(do  not  smile,)  I  tell  you  that  face  will  become  beautiful 

You  must  surely  have  seen  this  wondrous  transfiguration 
of  which  I  speak.  Yes ;  there  comes  ore  hour,  the  only 
one,  perhaps,  during  a  whole  lifetime,  when  the  ugliest 
man  or  woman  among  us  grows  beautiful.  An  hour  of 


284  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

strong  passion,  elevating  excitement ;  an  hour  when  the 
soul  reigns  supreme.  And  if  that  soul  bo  beautiful,  why, 
the  face  is  beautiful  too.  You  read  eternal  redemption  on 
the  brow,  in  letters  of  sacred  fire. 

Again,  death  has  revelations  suca  as  this.  You  who 
have  seen  a  beloved  one  die,  you  are  familiar  with  a  trans 
formation  that  yet  did  not  interfere  with  his  identity,  that 
left  him  still  your  own. 

You  remember  well,  do  you  not  ?  the  serene  radiance  of 
his  expression.  You  beheld  his  face  as  it  were  that  of  an 
angel.  Such  was  the  aspect  Stephen  wore,  when  they 
stoned  him  as  he  knelt,  and  in  the  open  heavens  saw  Jesus 
standing  on  the  right  hand  of  God. 

But  when  the  last  breath  is  drawn,  what  dignity,  what 
ineffable  serenity  !  The  body  had  suffered  much.  It  was 
old,  perhaps  infirm,  very  wretched  in  every  way.  Death 
comes ;  and  an  ideal  youth,  the  youth  of  immortality  de 
scends  upon  the  brow. 

There  are  flowers  which  only  yield  their  fragrance  to  the 
night ;  there  are  faces  whose  beauty  only  fully  opens  out 
in  death.  No  more  wrinkles ;  no  drawn,  distorted  linea 
ments;  an  expression  of  extreme  humility,  blended  with 
gladness  of  hope;  a  serene  brightness;  and  an  ideal 
straightening  of  the  outline,  as  if  the  Divine  finger,  source 
of  supreme  beauty,  had  been  laid  there.  You  cannot  take 
your  eyes  away.  Dead,  your  loved  one  consoles  you  for 
the  agony  of  having  seen  him  suffer.  His  face,  his  inex 
pressible  grandeur,  his  smile, — all  say  to  you,  "  Believe ; 
yet  a  little  while,  and  thou  shalt  see  me  again." 

I  am  about  to  relate  to  you  one  of  the  strong  emotions 
«;f  my  lifo.  I  found  myself  in  the  crypt  of  a  church  at 
Palermo.  My  friends  and  I  had  gone  down  into  it  without 
exactly  knowing  where  we  went,  and  walked,  with  more  of 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  THE  BODY.     285 

surprise  than  terror,  between  a  double  line  of  skeletons. 
And  yet  the  spectacle  was  ghastly  enough.  Those  perpen 
dicular  dead  bodies,  dressed  in  brown  garments,  that  hung 
loosely  around  their  bony  limbs,  with  crossed  hands,  hold 
ing  some  sort  of  shield,  with  their  names  written  on  it ; 
had  fallen  into  dislocated  attitudes,  even  more  grotesque 
than  horrible.  The  portals  of  our  Gothic  cathedrals  have 
no  representations  that  equal  this.  And  yet  we  were  not 
conscious  of  any  terror.  Death  presented  us,  indeed,  with 
his  material  aspect,  his  sad  repulsive  aspect,  but  the  like 
ness  of  humanity  was  still  there. 

With  one  word,  we  felt  God  could  call  those  diy  bones 
to  life  again. 

The  next  chamber  had  a  more  appalling  spectacle  in  re 
serve.  All  along  the  walls — as  in  the  cabin  of  some  great 
ship — -were  ranged  berths  of  equal  length,  and  on  these, 
dressed  in  gorgeous  attire,  hands  gloved,  lay  the  corpses  of 
women, — with  discoloured  faces,  empty  eye-sockets,  sunken 
features,  hollow  mouths,  and  wreaths  of  roses  on  their 
heads.  There  were  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  them,  in 
all  the  pomp  of  their  court  dresses,  and  a  nauseating  smell, 
the  cold,  faint  smell  of  death,  rose  from  the  vaults  where 
the  bodies  were  drying. 

In  the  presence  of  these  faces  with  their  beauty  so  in 
exorably  destroyed,  of  this  ghastly  satire  on  worldly  vani 
ties,  I  felt  my  blood  congeal.  But  when  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,  lit  by  our  guide's  torch,  a  well  yawned  before  us, 
and  he  lowered  the  red  and  smoking  light  he  held  to  shew 
it  better ;  when  I  saw  that  nameless  detritus,  damp,  pesti 
lential,  which  overflowed  the  well's  mouth,  and  when  our 
guide  said — "  This  is  the  dust  of  those  yonder ;  wvhen  they 
have  lain  there  their  time,  we  throw  them  in  here/5  I  re 
mained  almost  lifeless  with  horrc  r, 


286  THE  IIEA  VENLY  HORIZONS. 

With  my  hand  half  plunged  in  those  ashes,  looking  at 
what  they  had  left  on  my  fingers,  a  despairing  doubt  flashed 
blightingly  across  my  soul. 

As  I  fled  in  haste  from  that  fatal  crypt,  and  mounted 
with  unsteady  step  the  stair  that  led  us  back  into  the  nave, 
just  where  the  daylight  began  to  appear,  I  suddenly  saw 
four  letters  carved  on  the  wall,  I.  N.  R  I.  THen  a  voice 
sounded  very  near  my  heart — "Believest  tliou  that  I  am 
able  to  do  this?" 

Jesus  of  Nazareth,  King  of  the  Jews,  yea  verily  Thou 
wilt  do  it ! 

From  that  day  I  have  never  for  a  moment  doubted  of 
the  Resurrection  of  the  Dead 


PART  THIED. 


THE  WHOLE  CREATION  SIGHETH, 

SIGH  !  You  all  know  it  well,  this  sigh  of  sad 
ness  ;  this  sigh  of  expectation.  Not  a  breast 
that  has  not  heaved  with  it  j  no  lips  from  which 
it  has  not  often  risen  to  heaven. 

We  are  ill  at  ease.  All  of  us,  whether  we  be  happy  or 
unhappy,  have  a  burden  to  bear,  the  burden  of  human 
woes.  There  is  no  escape  from  one  deep  consciousness, 
intensified  perhaps  by  the  breathless  hurry  of  our  age, — 
that  of  the  short  duration  of  all  earthly  things.  The  best 
are  soonest  over,  but  all  pass  in  exceeding  haste,  and  we 
ourselves  seem  as  though  a  mighty  and  resistless  wind  were 
sweeping  us  away. 

Formerly,  tidings,  whether  good  or  bad,  were  slow  of 
step ;  we  hardly  knew  what  was  going  on  at  the  other  side 
of  the  globe  till  a  year  after  the  event.  If  blood  had  been 
spilled,  the  earth  had  had  time  to  drink  it  up  ;  if  tears  had 
flowed,  the  sun  had  had  time  to  dry  them.  The  griefs  that 
spoke  to  us  from  afar,  left  the  heart  comparatively  unmoved. 
That  is  perhaps  the  reason  why  our  grandmothers'  laughter 
rang  so  freshly  despite  their  fourscore- years. 

Things  are  changed  now.  The  tree  of  the  knowledge  of 
good  and  evil  has  bent  its  branches  more  within  our  reach, 
and  each  moment  our  greedy  hands  are  raised  to  gather  its 


288  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

fruit.  And  the  result  is  not  only  an  anxious  restlessness, 
but  a  fund  of  bitter  melancholy. 

Formerly,  the  general  tone  was  one  of  gaiety.  The  note 
that  an  attentive  observer  would  have  heard  prevailing  over 
all  others,  was  a  crystalline  serene  note,  echoing  from  the 
cottage  to  the  palace.  The  note  that  vibrates  over  our 
earth  at  this  present  hour,  in  the  village,  town,  or  quiet 
country,  is  a  wailing  note,  akin  to  tears, — is  an  immense 
sigh. 

Regret  for  blessings  lost,  sadness  left  by  past  suffering, 
craving  and  quenchless  thirst ;  all  these  are  included  in  it. 
But  in  many  who  are  unconscious  of  it,  there  is  also  a 
latent  aspiration  after  good  things  to  come ;  an  inextin 
guishable  need  of  deliverance ;  an  intense  desire  for  per 
manent  light.  And  when  I  represent  to  myself  men  of 
this  class,  I  seem  to  see  noble  but  chained  beings,  who 
stretch  out  their  arms  to  the  skies,  whence  the  Redeemer 
is  to  descend. 

You  think  me  gloomy.  Among  you,  I  see  some  who  lay 
claim  to  high  spirits,  are  given  to  laughter,  who  feel  no  dis 
couragement,  no  weariness,  who  protest  that  they  are  com 
fortably  settled  on  this  sad  earth  of  ours,  and  not  by  any 
means  in  a  hurry  to  leave  it. 

Yes,  I  know  that  there  are  two  ways  of  looking  at  this 
world.  Believe  me,  I  too  have  hours  in  which  earth  seems 
to  me  young  and  beautiful.  Spring  days,  when  the  spirit 
of  life  breathes  upon  the  fields,  when  the  sap  mounts  to  the 
branches,  when  the  foot  treads  half  unawares  on  new-spring 
ing  grass  ;  when  each  nook  and  corner  of  the  old  wood  is 
carpeted  with  periwinkle.  There  is  a  sudden  efflorescence  ; 
the  bushes  are  great  nosegays^  placed  here  and  there  in  the 
dingles  ;  the  branches  unfurl  their  leaves,  not  yet  browned 
by  the  sun,  or  spotted  by  the  fly.  There  are  still  indeed 


THE  WHOLE  CREATION  SIGHETH.       289 

p.  few  shabby  weeds  of  last  year  which  linger  on  by  tha 
brook  ;  a  few  dry,  angular  branches  standing  out  from  the 
young  foliage,  but  who  notices  them  ?  Winter  and  death 
are  fairly  put  to  flight  by  spring. 

How  delightful  to  inhale  the  aromatic  perfume  of  the 
pine-trees,  the  breath  of  the  primrose  !  Sometimes  a  breeze 
comes  to  us  from  the  gardens  below,  blending  with  all  the 
rest  the  fragrance  of  the  lilacs  in  flower. 

Let  us  stop  a  while,  if  you  will,  on  the  border  of  the 
wood.  Stretched  out  at  full  length,  there  I  listen. 

Who  spoke  of  sadness  ?  The  coppice  is  full  of  woodland 
melody.  The  nightingale  defying  the  sun,  and  when  it 
pleases  him  to  be  silent,  other  strains  are  heard,  other 
wTarblings  of  quieter  character,  simple  symphonies,  little 
hops  from  branch  to  branch,  and  two  or  three  strokes  of 
the  wing  that  bear  the  songster  to  some  more  secret  shelter. 

There,  under  the  apple-tree,  is  a  buzzing  as  of  a  hive,  on 
the  hawthorn-starred  hedge  are  myriads  of  insects,  in  red 
attire,  blue  attire,  some  perfect  mosaics,  others  gemmed  like 
a  royal  casket.  Amongst  the  grasses,  with  their  delicate 
plumes,  other  treasures  again,  and  the  air  is  full  of  busy, 
winged  swarms,  brilliant  as  lightning.  And  all  so  happy, 
so  healthy  ;  all  celebrating  in  their  own  way  the  festival  of 
life. 

Yes,  but  they  all  die,  and  when  that  thought  strikes  your 
heart,  the  festival  is  over. 

Then  the  woes  of  all  the  earth  begin  to  rise  like  mist ; 
gradually  they  spread  over  the  magic  of  the  scene,  they  put 
out  all  its  glories  one  by  one. 

Oh,  short  duration  of  all  things  here  below !  Of  the 
spring  freshness,  soon  consumed  by  the  drought  of  sum 
mer;  of  this  May  morning,  that  a  return  of  cold  winds 
will  blight ;  of  these  poor  insect  swarms,  of  which  not  one 

T 


290  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

will  suivive  to  see  another  April ;  of  that  labourer  * 
ing  there;  of  this  young  girl;  of  the  dwellers  in  that 
village,  with  its  peaceful  smoke  from  cottage  chimneys ; 
the  dwellers  in  yonder  town,  with  its  ancient  towers.  Fifty 
years,  sixty,  eighty  at  most,  and  all,  from  the  rosy  infant 
just  learning  to  steady  its  little  feet  on  its  mother's  knee, 
to  its  grandmother,  whose  head  shakes,  as  leaning  on  her 
staff  she  slowly  moves  along ;  all  will  be  laid  in  the  dust. 
On  earth,  in  the  place  that  knew  them  once,  a  new  genera 
tion  will  rise,  with  its  nurslings  and  its  graybeards  in  their 
turn.  That  generation,  too,  will  be  cut  down  and  laid  low ; 
and  the  next,  and  the  next ;  and  death  will  be  always, 
always  the  same  strong  reaper,  rising  early,  the  only  one 
who  sees  others  pass  away,  and  himself  passes  never. 

Do  you  remember  that  story  of  Musaeus,  so  sad  beneath 
its  playfulness,  full  of  such  bitter  irony  under  the  disguise 
of  mirth  ? 

The  genius  of  the  Hartz,  Riibezahl,  a  monarch  whose 
kingdom  extends  to  subterranean  depths,  met,  one  fine 
day  that  he  wandered  through  the  woods,  with  the  daughter 
of  the  prince  of  the  country.  To  fall  in  love  with  her,  to 
seize  her  as  she  slept,  to  dive  down  with  her  into  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  to  place  her  gently  in  the  fairy  gardens 
there,  beside  the  fountain  which  sparkled  in  the  gas-lights 
burning  all  round, — this  was  the  work  of  a  single  moment. 
The  princess  awakes,  a  little  startled,  of  course,  at  first ; 
walks  about,  admires  as  well  as  wonders.  Everything  is 
splendid ;  a  novel  kind  of  poetry  broods  over  the  whole 
region.  Soon  she  discovers  that  she  is  loved ;  and  for 
some  days  this  new  feeling — which  she,  however,  does  r.ot 
share — suffices  to  divert  her.  But  one  morning  she  chances 
V,  remember  the  sun,  to  remember  her  father,  her  mother, 
her  young  companions.  -She  begins  to  weep;  an  unbounded 


THE   WHOLE  CREATION  SIGHETH.      291 

ennui  takes  possession  of  her ;  a  little  time,  and  evidently 
she  will  die.  Here  is  our  genius  in  a  pretty  dilemma  !  He 
is  too  selfish  to  restore  the  princess  to  the  place  from  wh  ence 
he  took  her.  To  carry  off  the  king,  the  queen,  and  their 
court  would  be  too  troublesome  a  measure ;  and,  moreover, 
subterranean  genii  are  very  solitary  in  their  habits.  What 
is  to  be  done  ?  Eureka  /  Our  genius  has  hit  it ;  and 
while  the  princess  sits  in  her  apartments,  her  head  buried 
in  her  cushions,  breaking  her  heart,  and  insensible  to  all 
that  so  lately  pleased  her,  Eubezahl  appears  before  her 
with  a  basket  of  turnips  in  his  arms.  He  places  the  basket 
at  her  feet.  The  princess,  who  has  been  slyly  looking  at 
him  the  while,  finds  the  present  a  very  homely  one. 
"Princess  !"  says  the  genius,  "wave  this  wand" 
He  bows  low,  and  retires.  The  princess  carelessly  passes 
the  wand  over  the  turnips.  Oh,  prodigy  !  Her  father, 
his  majesty  the  king  himself,  sceptre  in  hand ;  her  mother 
the  queen,  crown  on  head ;  and  her  brothers,  sisters,  the 
court  ladies,  the  chamberlain,  the  maids  of  honour ;  even 
the  grooms,  even  the  turnspits  ; — every  one,  in  short,  except 
a  certain  handsome  young  knight,  whom  Master  Hiibezahl 
had  his  own  reasons  for  leaving  in  the  lurch  ! 

What  embraces,  what  narrations,  what  festivals,  in  the 
enchanted  gardens  !  Only,  about  midday  the  king,  the 
queen,  the  ladies,  young  and  old,  seem  to  grow  a  little 
languid.  Let  us  rest.  They  all  go  in,  and  luncheon  is 
prepared.  But,  strange  to  say,  instead  of  being  recruited 
by  it,  the  august  personages  grow  more  and  more  exhausted. 
You  would  say  that  years  are  suddenly  heaped  upon  their 
brows  ;  every  moment  wrinkles  deepen  :  voices  become 
cracked;  steps  grow  slower ;  forms  shrink;  backs  arched ; 
old  age  is  coming  on.  A  few  moments  more,  and  the 
whole  court,  so  brilliant  a  while  ago,  will  bo  nothing  better 


292  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

than  an  hospital  for  the  aged  ;  tottering  steps,  little  quiver 
ing  coughs  all  round ;  and  when  the  needle  has  completed 
its  circle,  all  turned  again  to  turnips — poor,  withered 
turnips,  will  lie  scattered  on  the  floor. 

As  to  the  reception  the  genius  got  the  next  morning, 
when  he  came  running  in,  basket  in  hand,  the  bursts  of 
tears,  the  indignation, — we  have  nothing  to  do  with  these. 
We  stop  at  the  turnips,  striking  image  of  our  short  dura 
tion.  I  find  it  terribly,  poignantly  true. 

Everything  dies,  and  on  this  spring  morning,  if  I  lay  my 
ear  to  the  ground,  I  seem  to  hear,  from  every  point  of  the 
compass,  the  heavy  step  of  men  who  carry  a  corpse  to  its 
burial.  Cries  of  pain  rise  from  this  Eden  of  ours.  They 
come  from  the  forest  glade,  where  the  hawk  pounces  upon 
some  quivering  thing  ;  from  the  village,  where  the  peasant 
takes  the  new-born  lamb  from  its  mother  ;  they  come  still 
more  from  cities, — clamours,  sinister  laughs,  slaughtered 
cattle,  sobs,  threats,  men  who  kill,  who  are  killed ;  tears  of 
those  who  refuse  to  be  comforted !  And  those  who  do 
not  cry  out,  whom  we  do  not  hear,  are  those  who  suffer 
most. 

Have  you  ever  travelled  rapidly  through  the  country  on 
a  summer  night  1  The  cool  breeze  played  round  you,  laden 
with  the  perfume  flowers  give  out  after  sunset ;  your  glance 
was  raised,  was  lost  in  the  infinite  sky,  amid  its  number 
less  stars.  Half  dreaming,  you  kirdly  seemed  an  inhabit 
ant  of  earth ;  and  yet  the  earth  was  exquisite,  ideal  in  its 
beauty.  All  at  once,  as  you  pass  through  a  village,  you 
r>ce  one  little  window  with  a  light  burning.  The  other 
cottagers  are  asleep, — here  there  is  watching.  What  is  it 
that  watches  ?  Happiness  ?  No  !  A  mother  bending  over 
tho  cradle  of  her  sinking  child ;  a  wife  standing  pale  by 
the  couch  on  which  her  husband  is  dying  ;  two  men  cower 


THE  WHOLE  CREATION  SIGHETH.      293 

ing  over  the  hearth,  and  on  the  bed  a  body  stiff  and  cold, 
which  they  will  carry  to  the  graveyard  to-morrow. 

Even  the  happy  have  secret  griefs  whioh  their  lips  will 
never  utter.  Corroding  anxieties,  hidden  terrors,  fatal  dis 
coveries  made  in  the  nature  of  their  loved  ones, — all  these 
dumb  sorrows,  but  not  the  less  devouring. 

Fly  from  our  civilised  countries ;  go  to  the  centre  of 
Africa,  what  do  you  find  there  ^  A  sandy  desert  so  steeped 
in  blood,  such  wholesale  massacres,  that  travellers  of  every 
creed  call  those  negro-lands  the  kingdom  of  Satan. 

On  their  coasts,  caravans  of  slaves,  with  halters  round 
their  necks,  beaten,  bartered,  piled  on  one  another  between 
decks,  exposed  to  sale,  dragged  off  to  plantations,  married, 
unmarried,  at  their  master's  will,  dying  under  the  lash.  In 
Pagan  isles,  wars,  massacres,  cannibalism.  In  China, 
Persia,  India,  refined  cruelties,  of  which  our  nerves  cannot 
bear  the  recital.  In  every  latitude,  human  brutality,  tak 
ing  advantage  of  the  helplessness  of  dumb  animals,  cowardly 
cruelty,  or  cruel  kindness  ! 

This  is  our  world. 

But  there  is  something  more  heartrending  still,  because 
concerning  us  more  closely,  and  that  is  our  own  inherent 
selfishness.  Night  and  day,  it  poisons  our  souls,  taint? 
our  affections.  We  are  selfish,  proud,  envious,  covetous. 
Cold  to  others,  even  to  those  we  believe  that  we  love ;  we 
are  vitally  interested  only  in  ourselves ;  and  even  this 
interest  is  unwise,  for  we  are  often  guilty  of  our  own  ruin. 

Alas  !  who  has  not  felt  a  keen  self-abhorrence,  who  has 
not  had  cause  for  it?  Do  you  know  that  shame  that 
comes  over  us  when  we  see  ourselves  as  we  are,  and  that 
unspeakable  sorrow  at  finding  that  year  added  to  year 
leave  us  but  what  we  were,  having  gained  no  virtues,  lost 
no  faults  ? 


294  THE  HE  A  VENLY  HORIZONS. 

Or  have  you.  duly  measured  your  own  powerlessness  ? 
Have  you  felt  Low  narrow  the  walls  of  your  prison? 
Have  you  wrestled  with  your  thoughts,  and  been  bruised 
in  the  encounter?  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  touch 
without  grasping,  to  be  strong  enough  to  combat  but  not 
to  overcome,  capable  of  feeling,  but  not  of  expressing  what 
you  feel  ? 

And  yet  you  do  not  sigh,  you  want  nothing  more  ! 

As  for  me,  from  my  heart  there  ever  rises  an  unutterable 
groan.  The  world,  as  it  is  now,  does  not  satisfy  me,  still 
less  do  I  satisfy  myself.  Creation  suffers  and  laments 
with  me.  St  Paul  expresses  this  mighty  woe  in  one  strong 
word — "  travaileth  with  pain/' 

What  is  that  we  are  looking  for — Death  1  It  is  here, 
taking  us  all  away  at  our  appointed  hour.  Death  is  a 
curse,  it  sweeps  the  earth  bare,  but  cannot  transform  it. 

Is  it  the  last  judgment,  the  awful  hour,  that  even  the  re 
deemed  of  the  Lord  cannot  contemplate  unmoved  ? — The 
judgment  crushes  the  guilty ;  but  creation  is  not  saved. 

Is  it  the  final  destruction,  the  devouring  fire  predicted 
in  Scripture  ? — This  will  destroy  the  earth,  but  will  not 
restore  its  innocence  or  its  beauty. 

Is  it  the  new  heaven  and  the  new  earth  ? — But  it  is  this 
world  that  has  suffered,  and  to  it  special  promises  have 
bcon  made.  The  whole  creation  plunged  in  misery,  the 
oppression  of  the  poor,  nature  fallen  from  its  first  estate — 
all  ask  for  something  beside,  claim  some  other  promise 
wait  for  something  more  ! 

What  is  that  creation  hopes  for  ? — For  its  deliverance. 
For  what  does  it  sigh  ? — For  its  restoration.  What  does 
it  wait  for  ? — For  Jesus,  the  King  ! 

He  will  come  again !  This  cry  echoes  throughout  the 
o  crip  tinea. 


TUE  WHOLE  CREATION  SIGIIETH.      295 

He  will  come  again ;  He  who  publishes  liberty  to  the 
captives,  and  crushes  Death  beneath  His  foot.  He  will 
come  again.  With  Him  will  come  purity,  love,  the  era  of 
perfect  blessedness  foretold  by  the  prophets. 

The  messengers  of  the  Lord  in  all  times  speak  to  us  of 
a  sanctified  world  singing  praises  to  God ;  we  only  know 
a  sinful  world,  hurling  complaints  and  blasphemies  against 
Him.  Happiness  overflows  the  earth  of  which  they  speak. 
Our  earth  is  the  seat  of  desolation.  They  tell  us  of  times 
of  refreshing ;  our  times  are  times  of  exhaustion.  Peace, 
love,  exceeding  great  joy  here  on  earth,  both  with  God  and 
our  fellow-creatures  ;  these  are  promised ;  and,  behold,  ward 
ravage,  tears  inundate  our  world,  sorrow  for  the  dead 
draws  her  dark  veil  round  it,  the  angels  as  they  pass  it  in 
their  heavenward  flight  hear  a  murmur  of  plaintive  cries, 
angry  voices,  and  mad  laughter,  sadder  still  than  tears. 

From  age  to  age  generations  of  believers  have  been  laid 
in  the  grave,  their  faces  turned  to  the  east ;  and  each,  in 
dying,  has  left  behind  the  sublime  watchword,  Thy  king 
dom  come ! 

Yea,  Lord,  Thy  kingdom  come  !  Scoffers,  indeed,  may 
Liugh.  Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming1?  they  say. 
''•  Since  the  fathers  fell  asleep  all  things  have  gone  on  the 
same" 

Thy  kingdom  come !  We  have  nothing  else  to  answer, 
I'othing  else  to  ask. 

Thy  kingdom  come !  It  is  at  once  a  praj  er  and  a 
pledge.  He  who  told  us  thus  to  pray  is  He  who  \\i\] 
surely  come. 

If,  hearts  big  with  love,  hands  clasped,  if  with  strong  cry 
ing  and  tears,  the  whole  earth  were  to  raise  this  burning 
aspiration  to  the  skies — oh,  I  believe  that  the;  Lord  would 
hear,  I  believe,  indeed,  that  the  Lord  would  come. 


THE  COMING  OF  CHRIST. 

]HE  whole  primitive  Church  expected  the  coming 
of  Christ,  and  believed  in  His  temporal  reign. 
This  belief,  so  strong  and  firm  in  apostolic  times, 
faded  in  proportion  as  faith  lost  its  early  simplicity.  Men 
took  to  materialise  precepts  and  spiritualise  prophecy,  and 
thus  truth  got  modified  on  both  sides. 

I  am  one  who  take  the  promises  in  a  literal  sense.  I  be 
lieve  with  all  my  soul  in  my  Saviour's  coming.  I  believe 
that  our  earth  will  witness  the  scenes  described  by  the 
prophets,  and  I  have  drawn  my  conviction  from  the  study 
of  the  Bible. 

The  Lord  comes  !  As  the  lightning  shining  from  the 
east  to  the  west,  so  is  the  shining  of  the  Son  of  God.  He 
comes  surrounded  by  His  redeemed,  by  myriads  of  angels, 
comes  as  conqueror  to  claim  His  crown. 

The  hour  has  struck,  the  souls  of  the  elect  have  put  on 
their  glorified  bodies.  God's  power  has  done  this.  In  the 
same  moment  the  faithful  who  still  live  have  been  conscious 
of  a  marvellous  transformation.  It  is  not  death;  it  is 
rather  the  casting  off  of  a  chrysalis  covering.  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  incorruption  has  triumphed  over 
corruption. 

Do  you  realise  this  moment,  this  coming,  this  object  of 
faith,  now  beheld  from  far,  as  actually  come  to  pass  1 

Yes,  it  is  true ;  my  imagination  is  not  at  work,  my  eyes 
see.  It  is  indeed  Josus  nn  Lord.  This  is  lie  who  li::;] 


THE  COMING  OF  CHRIST.  297 

pity  on  me ;  who  suffered  for  me  ;  whom  I  love  with  all 
the  strength  of  my  soul.  My  breast  expands  with  a  divine 
breath,  each  moment  I  love  more,  and  feel  that  I  am  more 
beloved.  My  God !  oh,  to  prostrate  myself  before  Thee  ! 
to  adore  Thee  !  It  is  as  though  a  su.1  had  risen  within  my 
heart.  At  one  glance  my  eye  has  taken  in  the  thousand 
thousands  in  Thy  train.  My  dear  ones,  there  you  all  are ; 
you  indeed,  you  living,  you  for  ever  mine — all  of  us  the 
Lord's.  But  yesterday,  I  laid  your  bodies  in  the  earth, 
but  yesterday  I  wandered  alone,  losing  myself  in  the 
immensity  of  my  sorrow,  and  now  you  are  here,  my  hands 
touch  you,  you  will  not  die  any  more.  If  God's  arm  did 
not  sustain,  surely  man  would  founder  in  this  ocean  of 
bliss. 

The  rest  of  the  dead  live  not  again,  says  the  Scripture, 
till  the  thousand  years  are  over.  Christ's  risen  elect,  to 
gether  with  the  nations  living  at  the  time,  people  our 
legenerated  earth. 

Israel  has  seen  the  One  that  hung  upon  the  cross,  come 
down  from  heaven  ;  Israel  has  beat  his  breast  and  gathered 
round  the  King  of  Glory,  his  King. 

Then  an  act  of  incalculable  importance  is  accomplished. 
The  angel  who  has  the  keys  of  the  pit  seizes  upon  Satan, 
throws  him  into  the  gulf,  and  sets  a  seal  upon  him. 

Peace  is  made  on  earth.  No  more  wars,  no  more 
wrongs ;  a  law  of  love  easily  obeyed ;  a  hosanna  of  all 
creation. 

Let  us  pause  for  a  moment.  I  want  to  breathe  this  new 
air,  and  to  open  out  my  soul  to  this  light. 

Satan  bound.  Do  you  comprehend  the  importance  of 
the  fact  ] 

There  is  in  the  Bible  a  narrative  which  gives  a  lively 
representation  of  Satan' .3  work  among  men. 


298  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

Joshua,  the  High  Priust,  is  standing  before  the  Lord 
On  his  right  hand  a  dark  form  rears  itself,  standing  too— 
Satan — to  resist  him. 

I  know  it  well,  that  intercession  which  Satan  resists. 
Witty  men  have  ridiculed  it ;  they  have  described  that 
grotesque  medley  ot  serious  and  frivolous  thoughts ;  have 
held  up  to  us  in  raillery, — that  cry  of  disquieted  hearts, 
disguised  by  the  verbiage  of  vanity.  Possibly  Satan  does 
not  resist  them  when  they  pray.  But  we  poor  creatures 
whom  he  tortures,  we  who  would  fain  believe,  and  who 
hear  him  whisper  sceptical  words  in  our  ear  ;  we  who  would 
love,  and  feel  his  arid  breath  pass  over  our  hearts;  we 
who  want  to  concentrate  our  minds  on  God,  and  before 
whom  Satan  displays  the  most  paltry  of  earth's  toys ;  wo 
who  wrestle  unto  blood,  torn,  often  overcome  by  him  ;  wo 
who  rise  battered  from  our  fall,  and  lift  to  our  Father 
maimed  and  trembling  hands;  we  who  know  that  our 
enemy  is  there,  always  there,  even  to  that  death-bed  by 
which  He  stays  to  watch  us ;  why,  to  be  freed  from  Satan, 
the  great  resister,  the  unpitying  adversary — this  for  us  is 
the  crowning  deliverance. 

No  more  barriers  between  Jesus  and  the  nations;  no 
longer  an  accuser  between  the  soul  and  God. 

If  original  sin  remain,  the  tempter  no  longer  aggravates 
it ;  if  the  old  leaven  be  still  there,  Satan  is  not  there  to 
make  it  rise. 

We  had  need  of  faith ;  those  happy  ones  have  sight,  joy, 
harmony,  everything  to  lead  them  to  give  their  heart  to 
holiness. 

Oh,  I  can  understand  that  hymn  of  rapture  which  marks 
our  earth's  course  through  the  skies.  The  ground  is  moved, 
the  forests  clap  their  hands,  the  streams  fertilise  the  sandy 
wastes,  the  rose  blooms  in  the  desert.  No  more  desolate 


THE  COMING  OF  CHRHT.  299 

places,  no  more  broken  hearts,  we  hear  no  longer  the  lion'g 
roar,  the  shrieks  of  the  slaughtered  are  changed  to  songs 
of  thanksgiving.  The  Lord's  alliance  with  His  creatures 
glorifies  the  universe. 

You  are  shocked  at  this  !  Such  a  scheme  seems  to  you 
unworthy  of  God  who  is  a  Spirit.  For  my  part,  it  leaves 
me  penetrated  with  reverence,  admiring  reverence.  With 
out  this  restoration  of  all  things  there  lacked  one  ray  of 
my  God's  perfect  glory. 

It  well  beseems  the  Creator  to  re-establish  His  work  in 
its  pristine  beauty ;  to  restore  to  it  the  lustre  it  possessed 
when  He  spake  the  word  and  it  was  made.  It  becomes 
His  power  to  snatch  it  entire  from  the  grasp  of  Satan.  It 
befits  His  glory  to  display  it  radiant  once  more ;  more 
touchingly  beautiful,  because  it  has  known  suffering  ;  more 
precious,  because  Jesus  has  died  for  it ;  more  firmly  rooted 
in  holiness,  because  it  has  struggled  to  recover  it. 

You  would  have  this  earth  in  which  God  has  taken  de 
light,  left  by  Him  to  perish  under  the  curse ;  you  would 
have  Him  to  leave  this  triumph  to  Satan ;  not  so,  the 
rebellious  angel  shall  not  occupy  it.  From  the  depths  of 
the  abyss  he  will  see  the  earth  renewed,  the  true  Monarch 
govern  the  kingdom  he,  Satan,  had  for  a  season  usurped ; 
the  child  of  God  serve  Him  in  this  enlarged  Eden ;  the 
delivered  creature  willingly  obey  man ;  murders  and 
lamentations  cease  ;  the  restoration  of  all  things  be  accom 
plished.  £'aVm  will  see  all  this.  If  he  did  not  see  it,  if 
we  did  not  see  it,  Satan  would  have  gained  some  advan 
tage  in  the  conflict ;  he  would  have  successfully  resisted 
God. 

And  now,  tell  me,  do  not  yjou  find  such  a  restoration 
sublime?  Does  it  not  ueem  to  you  worthy  of  the  Lord, 
this  restoration  of  a  world  lost  by  the  madness  of  man  : 


300  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

tormented  by  the  rage  of  the  great  enemy,  saved  by  the 
very  Son  of  an  offended  God  1 

The  mountains  of  Judea  have  beheld  'fly  cross.  Jesas, 
Thou  Holy  of  Holies ;  the  walls  of  Jerusalem  have  heard 
the  shouts  of  the  maddened  crowds  that  dragged  Thee 
from  Caiaphas  to  Pilate ;  Gethsemane  has  drunk  Thy 
blood ;  Golgotha  has  echoed  with  the  mocking  laughter 
of  the  Roman  soldiers;  the  sighs  of  Thy  agony  have 
passed  over  this  land.  Thy  own  country,  Lord,  the  land 
of  promise,  shall  see  thy  triumph;  and  stirred  to  its 
inmost  depths,  shall  break  forth  in  a  cry  of  love  and  wel 
come. 

In  east  and  west,  the  children  of  this  land  have  led  a 
painful  life.  They  have  been  mocked,  trampled  upon,  till 
at  times  even  they  doubted,  despaired  of  themselves  and 
Thee.  The  earth  that  saw  them  so  wretched,  so  prostrated 
beneath  the  hatred  of  the  world,  shall  see  them  humble 
still,  but  radiant  with  joy,  surround  their  God  who  reigns 
in  the  midst  of  them. 

Oh,  the  tears  of  thy  mourners,  Earth  !  the  lonely  steps 
of  those  who  walked  among  thy  tombs  !  Thou  who  hast 
SAvallowcd  up  generations  of  cherished  beings ;  and  to 
those  who  asked  of  thee  their  dead,  hast  shewn  thy  dust 
as  sole  reply.  Thou  wilt  restore  them  all,  eternally  young 
and  happy ;  they  will  deck  thee  like  a  burst  of  new  flowers  ; 
two  and  two,  in  families,  in  companies,  they  will  walk 
again,  singing  with  joy,  on  the  sites  they  loved. 

The  beasts  of  thy  forests;  all  that  move  in  solitudes 
unknown  to  men;  all  that  swim  in  the  abysses  of  the 
deep, — used  ones  to  tear  each  other  to  pieces.  A  sound  as 
of  some  pillaged  town ;  a  nameless  sound,  which,  ,-is  we 
listen  to  it,  fills  the  soul  with,  terror,  rose  incessantly  from 
thy  whole  surface.  Ther  they  who  listen  will  hear  a  hymn 


THE  COMING  OF  CHRIST.  301 

of  deliverance  burst  forth  from  mountain  and  plain,  and 
the  waves  of  ocean  will  repeat  it  to  their  shores. 

Thou  thyself,  curse-stricken  Earth ;  thou  whose  breast 
cracks  at  the  equator  beneath  the  breath  of  the  simoom ; 
whose  barren  poles  are  crushed  beneath  icebergs, — thou 
shalt  blossom  out  fair  and  fresh,  younger  than  in  the  days 
of  Eden.  Thou  hast  borne  our  rebellion  and  our  woe 
through  the  immensity  of  space  ;  thou  shalt  then  inarch  in 
bridal  beauty  through  a  tranquil  sky ;  blessed  among 
worlds,  bearing  on  thy  surface  the  redeemed  and  the 
Redeemer. 

How  will  these  things  be  ? 

I  know  not,  but  God  knows.  The  least  moral  contra 
diction  troubles  me  more  than  mountains  of  physical  im 
possibility. 

How  will  the  dead  rise  ?  how  will  the  earth,  at  the  com 
ing  of  the  Lord,  contain  both  the  generations  of  risen 
saints  and  the  generations  of  living  men1?  how  will  the 
strange  change  of  which  St  Paul  speaks  be  effected?  in 
what  way  will  death,  powerless  over  the  former,  still  con 
tinue  its  sway  over  the  nations  that  are  to  exist  at  that 
marvellous  period  ?  in  what  way  will  Jesus  govern  ?  where 
will  His  children  dwell  1  will  there  be  some  easy  method  of 
communication  between  earth  and  heaven  1  a  marvellous 
ladder  like  that  which  Jacob  saw  ? 

Of  all  this  I  am  ignorant.  All  this  is  my  Father's  busi 
ness  ;  I  am  not  at  ah1  uneasy  about  it. 

Nothing  is  too  hard  for  Him  whose  seven  fiats  created 
the  universe. 

He  will  come  soon  f  Watchmen  lost  in  the  darkness,  we 
Bond  this  cry  of  hope  one  to  the  other.* 

*  Let  me  here  quote  an  anecdote,  related  by  the  Count  de  Maistre. 
"  Some  one  once  said  to  Copernicus,  *  If  the  world  were  constituted 


302  THE  HEAVENLY  HORIZONS. 

Yes,  the  morning  stars  will  soon  sing  together  the  hymn 
which  greeted  the  dawn  of  the  seventh  day;  the  bones 
that  strew  the  ground  will  soon  rise ;  Jesus  will  soon  re 
turn. 

I  shall  see  thee  again,  thou  holy  city,  no  longer  depressed 
and  trodden  down  by  unbelievers  ;  I  shall  see  thee  glorious, 
I  shall  salute  thee,  queen  of  the  world.  Thy  fountains 
will  gush  forth  anew,  0  Judea !  Under  thy  oaks,  O 
Carmel,  the  turtle-dove  shall  fly  in  peace,  not  fearing  the 
cruel  sportsman  !  Desert,  thy  wide  swamps  shall  change 
to  gardens ;  thy  swords,  turned  to  ploughshares,  shall 
prepa-re  thy  rich  harvests,  O  country,  everywhere  called 
blessed  ! 

You  who  weep,  say,  Are  not  your  tears  less  bitter  ?  You 
who  are  tossed  upon  the  open  sea,  do  you  not  begin  to  dis 
cern  the  shores  of  the  land  of  life  ? 

as  you  say,  Venus  would  have  phases  like  the  moon  ;  she  has  none, 
however.  What  have  you  to  say  to  that?' 

"  Copernicus  answered,  '  I  have  no  reply  to  give,  but  God  will  be  so 
good  as  that  an  answer  to  this  difficulty  be  found.' " 

In  fact,  God  icas  so  c/ood,  that  Galileo  invented  the  telescope  with 
which  these  phases  of  Venus  were  discovered;  but  Copernicus  was 
dead. 

God  will  oe  so  good,  that  we  shall  see  the  prodigies  of  His  power ; 
but  we  shall  then  be  living  an  eternal  life,  and  shall  only  wonder  at 
one  thing :  our  own  former  difficulties,  when  we  d  uld  depend  upon 
the  great  God  off  heaven  for  their  solution. 


NEV  HEAVENS  AND  NEW  EAIiTH. 

j|HE  destinies  of  our  globe  are  accomplished.  The 
world  that  we  knew  has  finished  its  course. 
Satan,  loosed  for  a  season,  has  waged  his  last 
war.  Jesus  has  for  ever  vanquished  him.  Heaven  and 
earth  have  fled  away.  There  is  no  more  time.  The  dead 
of  every  age  are  gathered  together. 

The  grave  has  given  up  its  prisoners,  the  sea  restored 
those  it  had  swallowed  up  for  thousands  of  years.  Those 
who  believed  God,  and  those  who  blasphemed  Him,  those 
who  supremely  desired,  and  those  who  rejected  Him,  those 
who  lived  delicately,  and  those  who  ate  the  bread  of  afflic 
tion,  are  all  there,  gathered  before  the  Lord.  Jesus  has 
given  up  the  kingdom  to  the  Father.  The  Father,  tba 
tVncient  of  Days,  has  given  all  judgment  to  the  Son. 

His  eye  reads  the  most  hidden  thoughts  of  the  obscurest 
creature  there.  The  past  lives  and  speaks.  Distant  ages 
{ire  present.  Forgetfulness — that  infirmity  of  our  nature — 
is  annihilated ;  all  that  man  has  ever  felt  or  done,  all  that 
remote  centuries  had  folded  up  in  their  veil,  all  is  exposed 
to  fullest  light. 

I  know  no  word  in  our  human  speech  that  can  express 
the  solemnity  of  such  an  hour. 

And  it  will  surely  come.  You  will  be  there,  so  shall  I, 
so  will  those  we  love.  A  shudder  passes  through  my  whole 
being.  Jesus,  Thou  hast  saved  me.  Thou,  my  Judge, 
Thou  hast  shed  Thy  blood  to  save  me.  Self-lost,  by  Tine 


304  THE  HEAVEN  LI  HORIZONS. 

redeemed,  despite  much  faithless  ness,  I  have  sought  to 
serve  Thee.  Nay,  more,  I  have  lived  with  Thee  upon  the 
regenerated  earth  ;  I  am  Thine,  so  much  is  certain.  But, 
beholding  Thee  so  awful,  Thou  whom  I  knew  so  meek, — T 
feel  my  courage  fail  And  then  my  sins  rise  before  me, 
not  one  is  omitted  ;  I  see  them  as  clearly  as  though  I  wero 
God  himself.  There  are  more,  many  more  of  them  than  I 
thought ;  they  are  uglier  than  I  knew — I  abhor  myself. 
And  they  are  all  written  down,  and  nothing  that  is  defiled 
shall  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Then  a  voice,  that  awful  voice  which,  in  the  forest, 
fnaketh  the  hinds  to  bring  forth  their  young  ;  that  terrible 
voice  which  drives  far  from  the  presence  of  God  whosoever 
has  rejected  His  pardon ;  that  voice,  the  very  same,  fraught 
now  with  inexpressible  tenderness,  exclaims,  "  Come,  ye 
blessed  of  my  Father  !" 

Does  not  a  hallelujah  burst  from  our  breast, — Glory  to 
God  in  the  Highest ! 

The  supreme  joy  of  paradise  will  be  to  adore.  It  will 
be  to  tell  over,  with  a  boundlessly  expanded  comprehension, 
the  sacrifice  of  Jesus,  the  love  of  the  Father,  the  merciful 
action  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 

The  last  judgment  is  over. 

Behold  the  new  earth,  the  new  skies  ! 

Death  destroyed  for  ever,  Satan  for  ever  overthrown.  If 
one  may  so  speak,  eternity  now  begins. 

You  do  not  expect  a  poor  human  creature  to  reveal  its 
secrets.  But  there  are  some  shadowy  features,  some  faint 
sounds,  which  have  reached  our  latitudes,  and  these  I  wiii 
endeavour  to  describe. 

Heavens  and  an  earth. 

That  there  should  be  heavens  surprises  no  one.  Heaven, 
ifliiity,  light,  the  dwelling  t>f  the  Most  High,  every  one 


NEW  HEAVENS  AND  NEW  EARTH.      303 

understands  that  in  a  measure,  and  anticipates  it  with  con- 
fidence. 

But  an  earth  also  !  Who  amongst  the  "wise  would  evei 
have  imagined  that  ? 

The  beings  whom  the  Eternal  raised  from  the  dust,  those 
who  have  reigned  with  Him  over  the  world,  these  were 
men,  they  are  men  still,  they  will  always  be  so.  God,  who 
has  decreed  it,  has  supremely  developed  them,  and  placed 
them  in  conditions  suited  to  their  raised  estate;  a  new 
earth. 

What  will  it  be  like  ?  I  do  not  know ;  I  know  ouly 
that  God's  tabernacle  will  be  there,  that  He  will  wipe  away 
our  tears,  that  joy  will  reign,  and  I  know  that  it  will  be 
for  ever. 

When  my  eye,  as  it  wanders  over  the  country  in  summer, 
beholds  it  decked  with  so  many  charms,  although  destined 
to  destruction,  my  thoughts  take  sudden  wing  to  that  pro 
mised  land,  before  whose  mysterious  adorning  will  pale  all 
that  we  now  call  beauty. 

Oh,  forests,  with  your  fresh  coolness ;  glades  with  tem 
pered  light,  filled  with  winged  creatures  rejoicing  in  their 
life  of  a  day ;  mountains  with  grassy  summits,  majesty  of 
peaks  of  snow ;  ineffable  charm  of  the  valley ;  blue  lakes, 
entranced,  looking  up  to  and  reflecting  the  sky, — my  God 
made  you  what  you  are.  It  is  God  who  will  make  the 
new  earth.  Our  low  prose  effaces  your  poetry ;  the  hymn 
which  rises  from  your  solitudes  is  overpowered  by  our 
jarring  voices ;  your  flowers  pass  away ;  the  flowers  of 
paradise  will  be  sweeter  still,  and  will  not  fade. 

But  God  has  prepared  still  more. 

Glory. 

This  is  a  sublime  promise,  and  I  would  not  be  ungrate 
ful  for  any  one  of  God's  gifts.  And  yet,  if  I  may  dare  to 

U 


306  THE  HE  A  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

say  so,  whether  from  feebleness  of  nature,  or  conscious  tm- 
worthiness,  glory  dazzles  me,  docs  not  thrill  my  heart. 

A  sweeter  certainty,  a  more  intimate  happiness,  fills  it 
with  emotion,  that  of  loving. 

To  love  my  God.  To  have  some  lowly  place  in  heaven, 
and  from  thence  to  see  my  God,  from  thence  to  love  Him 
with  enlarged  capacities,  delivered  from  all  my  coldness, 
all  my  insincerity.  To  love  my  friends  in  God,  with  an 
affection  also  enlarged,  purified,  bright,  burning  as  the  sun  ; 
no  fear  of  idolatry,  no  envy  to  corrode,  no  selfishness,  no 
deceit. 

I  have  so  poorly  loved  those  I  loved  most.  How  often 
my  affection  has  sunk  beneath  the  weight  of  earthly  cares, 
how  often  I  have  mourned  my  heart's  powerlessness  to 
cherish  unqualifiedly.  I  have  bruised  myself  against  the 
limitations  of  my  own  love  for  others,  as  well  as  against 
those  of  the  love  of  others  for  me.  But  now  everywhere 
there  is  the  Infinite, — in  me,  around  me  Infinite  tender 
ness,  and  this  co-existing  with  infinite  purity. 
I  shall  sin  no  more. 

Holinesss  is  henceforth  the  air  I  breathe ;  if  it  failed,  ] 
should  cease  to  breathe.  I  know  no  other  now.  I  hav< 
left  sin  behind  me ;  it  will  no  more  sully  the  ground  1 
tread,  no  more  stain  my  white  raiment. 

Oh,  blessing  of  perfection  !  To  sound  my  own  heart, 
and  find  only  purity  there !  To  move  at  will  in  spon 
taneous  obedience,  as  the  bird  floats,  and  traces  wide  circles 
in  the  luminous  atmosphere. 

Have  I  not  long  enough  dragged  my  chain?  have  I 
not  groaned  beneath  the  blows  of  a  detestable  tyrant  whom 
I  abhorred  1  have  I  not  spread  out  my  captive  hands  to 
the  Redeemer  ?  Liberty  !  liberty  !  My  breast  dilutes  aa 
with  a  fresh  breeze  from  mountain  tops.  I  feel  myself  a 


NEW  IIEA  YENS  AND  NEW  EARTH.      30? 

king ;  I  am  Thy  child,  my  God ;  Thy  brother,  O  Jesus ! 
Yes.  it  is  indeed  for  this  that  I  was  born. 

Truth. 

A  great  genius  died  exclaiming,  "  Light !  more  light !" 
His  cry  is  ours.  We  believe,  but  there  are  moments  when 
the  truth  that  we  have  so  abundantly  received  seems  to 
melt  away  in  our  hands.  The  firmer  we  seek  to  grasp  it, 
the  more  impalpable  it  becomes.  We  thought  we  had  a 
strong  hold  of  some  solid  thing ;  a  mere  smoke  rises, 
fading  out  of  our  sight.  This  is  only  a  nightmare  indeed ; 
\vc  wake  out  of  it,  but  we  wake  shattered. 

At  times,  a  terrible  cranibling-away  process  goes  on 
v,  ithin  us.  Everything  rocks  to  and  fro,  as  in  the  countries 
shaken  by  volcanic  fires.  We  want  to  lay  hold  upon  God  ; 
He  escapes  from  us.  We  utter  a  groan  of  despair ;  God 
hears  that, — He  succours  us.  But  what  a  shock  we  have 
had  !  how  it  has  aged  us,  as  it  were  !  We  have,  indeed, 
won  the  experience  of  our  Father's  faithfulness ;  but  we 
have  lost  the  simple  confidence  of  childhood.  We  believe 
more  firmly,  perhaps,  than  ever  ;  but  we  know  that  dark 
ness  may  overcast  the  brightest  day. 

But  there,  under  new  heavens,  on  the  new  earth,  the 
sun  will  shine  with  undisturbed  brightness.  No  night,  no 
eclipse  ;  and  our  eyes  will  meet  it  undazzled. 

To  see  truly,  to  think  truly,  to  feel  truly, — my  heart 
beats  high  at  such  a  prospect !  This  breathless  pursuit  to 
lay  hold  of  truth  ;  this  desperate  struggle  to  retain  it  ; 
faith,  that  supreme  effort,  that  combat  where  the  life  of  the 
soul  is  at  stake, — all  this  is  over,  left  far  behind.  My  eyes 
behold ;  falsehood  is  annihilated ;  error  vanished  away. 
Truth  !  thy  radiance  fills  the  sky ;  thou  art  the  medium  in 
which  I  live. 

But  thou   shiuest  not  for  me  alone ;   thou  fillest  the 


308  THE  HE  A  VENLY  HORIZONS. 

universe   with   thy   glory.     Anl   this   is   another   happi 
ness. 

There  are  truths,  my  God,  that  I  have  believed  on  Thy 
word.  Others  denied  them  ;  I  obeyed  them.  I  was  ridi 
culed,  but  I  remained  faithful  to  them.  Perhaps  for  a 
moment  I  hesitated  ;  my  heart  sank.  Nevertheless,  know 
ing  whence  they  came,  I  took  courage ;  and,  such  as  they 
were,  followed  them,  despite  the  hue  and  cry.  Yet,  while . 
following  them,  a  doubt  would  cross  my  soul, — was  I,  in 
deed,  right  against  so  many  1  That  truth,  so  scoffed  at, 
contradicted,  dying  out  it  seemed, — was  it  truth  indeed  ? 

And  now,  behold  it  shines  forth  triumphant,  irrefragable. 
It  was  no  phantom ;  it  was  indeed  Truth. 

Out  of  all  my  past  confusion,  one  confusion  only  remains, 
the  shame  of  having  defended  the  cause  of  truth  with  so 
faint  a  heart ;  of  having,  I  a  believer,  believed  it  so  little. 
The  justice  of  my  God  will  shine  forth. 
Do  you  remember  those  decrees  of  His  that  were  wont  to 
trouble  you  1 

That  God  should  punish  me;  that  He  should  purify 
even  to  the  point  of  mutilation, — does  not  surprise  me. 
But  others— that  beloved  son,  that  father  !  And  then  the 
iniquities  that  have  been  inflicted  ;  the  atrocities  endured  ! 
And  again,  such  and  such  a  decree,  which,  by  taking  from 
a  wife  her  husband,  from  a  daughter  her  mother,  delivers 
them  defenceless  up  to  vice,  and  vice  takes  its  prey.  Those 
poor  lives  which  spring  up  in  a  corrupt  medium,  as  though 
they  were  devoted  to  degradation,  and  so  soon  become  of 
necessity  degraded. 

There  have  been  seasons  when  I  felt  my  mind  darkened 
by  a  secret  dread  of  finding  God  cold  to  our  griefs ;  in 
different  to  our  losses;  an  inexorable  Destiny,  himself 
subjected  to  I  know  not  what  fatal  general  laws.  But. 


NEW  HEAVENS  AND  NEW  EARTH.      309 

oh,  I  see  now  that  this  is  not  so  !  Before,  there  was  a 
dark  abyss,  which  made  us  giddy ;  now,  there  is  light,  and 
that  light  reveals  the  unfathomable  love  of  God. 

Thy  compassion,  Lord,  blended  with  Thy  justice ;  Thy 
justice  throbbing  with  tenderness, — these  we  shall  see, 
these  the  universe  will  see.  Not  one  accusing  sigh  will 
rise  up  to  Thy  throne. 

And  that  justice  will  illumine  many  an  unappreciated 
brow.  Many  flowers,  the  exquisite  beauty  and  perfume  of 
which  were  unsuspected,  will  open  to  that  heavenly  day. 
Those  who  were  reviled  or  unnoticed,  will  shine  perfect 
in  beauty,  and  as  we  see  them,  our  hearts  will  glorify 
God. 

Knowledge  shall  be  done  away. 

Even  so  the  dawn  is  extinguished  by  the  sun  that  bursts 
forth  in  the  east. 

Nothing  will  perish  that  was  noble,  generous,  full  of  holy 
grace  and  poetry.  Let  us  prepare  our  souls  like  golden 
vessels  destined  to  hold  this  nectar,  the  knowledge  of  the 
Divine  perfection. 

There  vdll  be  music  there.  No  harmony  here  below ; 
not  even  those  marvellous  strains,  chanted  by  instruments, 
repeated  by  our  human  voices,  which  make  us  weep  as 
though  coming  to  us  from  the  land  of  the  blest ;  not  even 
those  modulations  spreading  from  sphere  to  sphere,  infinite 
in  sadness,  infinite  in  joy ;  not  even  this  glory  of  the  ideal 
can  give  any  idea  of  the  harmonies  with  which  heaven  will 
echo. 

The  secrets  of  creation,  the  plans  of  God  revealed ; 
harmonies  more  touching  still, — it  is  in  these  that  our 
thirst  of  knowledge,  ever  satisfied,  never  sated,  will  at 
length  be  quenched. 

We  sli  all  be  active. 


310  THE  II EA  VENL  Y  HORIZONS. 

The  angels  are  so ;  Jesus  is  so.  Active  without  a 
struggle  ;  active  without  exhaustion. 

Have  you  not  known  rare  and  transient  hours  of  work, 
when  your  mind  moved  freely  amidst  its  own  creations  ? 
As  fast  as  the  thought  arose,  it  was  shaped  fittingly,  and 
clothed,  sometimes  in  a  garment  with  graceful  folds,  some 
times  in  one  of  austere  simplicity,  but  always  the  idea  was 
ennobled  by  its  expression. 

That  was  done  without  difficulty.  The  ungel,  at  Eden's 
gate,  had  lowered  his  flaming  sword.  You  wandered — 
brow  all  light,  heart  all  gladness — in  a  world  where  all 
activity  was  delight.  What !  there  are  men  who  sow  in 
tears,  there  are  ploughs  which  tear  the  earth's  breast ! 
You  could  not  realise  it. 

A  breath  ;  Eden  is  closed,  the  sword  is  brandished,  you 
lie  prostrate.  Darkness  over  your  spirit,  your  nerves 
spent,  your  words  powerless,  your  thoughts  still  more  so, 
and,  if  you  struggle,  a  bloody  sweat. 

Oh,  then,  how  feelingly  you  remember  the  earthly  para 
dise  !  But  heaven  has  in  store  for  us  delightsome  labours, 
easy  as  respiration,  refreshing  as  dew,  and  to  these  there 
will  be  no  end. 

A  permanent  state. 

This  is  the  fulness  of  joy.  My  heart  can  rest  in  it. — For 
ever  ! 

I  have  felt  such  bliss,  that  heavnn,  I  have  thought,  could 
add  nothing  to  it ;  lightning-ilashc.^  of  adoration,  love, 
truth,  all  combined ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment,  and 
the  certainty  that  it  would  end,  cast  its  dark  shadow  over 
it. 

But  in  the  presence  of  my  God,  in  His  paradise  there 
will  be  no  end. 

The  licrht  will  not  fade,  the  heart  will  not  fail,  the  Lord 


NEW  HEAVENS  AND  NEW  EARTH.       311 

will  not  hide  His  face ;  nothing  will  pale,  nothing  will 
grow  cold ;  no  defection  will  be  possible,  the  full  cup  will 
never  break,  our  lips  never  turn  away. 

Eternal  youth,  eternal  desire,  eternal  enjoyment.  And 
the  essence  of  this  eternity — love. 

We  will  go  no  further.  I  bow  me  down.  Such  bright 
ness  makes  my  eyelids  droop.  My  voice  falters  and  fails. 
Prayer  alone,  thanksgiving,  the  sigh  of  an  humbled  spirit, 
intercession  for  those  who  weep — these  fill  my  heart,  and 
rise  from  it  without  words. 

Let  us  pause  It  is  good  to  be  here ;  this  is  the  gate  of 
heaven. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD  21A-60m-3,'65 
(F2336slO)476B 


General  Library 

Unirersity  of  California 

Berkeley 


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